


east of eden (and going west)

by Yolo_contendere



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, Billy/OMC - Freeform, Bottom Billy, Jealousy, M/M, Manipulation, Obsession, Pining, codependency like woah, depictions of underage sex, seemingly one-sided pining, unhealthy relationship dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-07-09 09:41:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19885537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yolo_contendere/pseuds/Yolo_contendere
Summary: Steve's going to marry Nancy Wheeler. That's a fact. Billy's going to be his best man. Also fact. He's been in love with Steve Harrington from the moment they met back in 1975? Well, that's just the truth.[The Childhood AU I've been screaming about for eons. Here we go.]





	1. privately unbearable

**Author's Note:**

> SO. I have been literally yelling about this to anyone who will listen for MONTHS. And we're finally here. And it's all thanks to my lovely beta xJuniperx, who has listened to me whine and struggle through this for a hot second now. And to LazyBaker, who has been a tireless cheerleader from the very beginning. Thank you for listening to me yell and for being the only other living souls as into this as I am. Let the angst commence.

**June, 1990**

Billy knows how to be a good host. A holdover from living with Neil. He’s been keeping the coolers full of beer—the nice kind—and flitting around, making sure everyone is enjoying themselves. Already, he’s been trapped by two separate conversations about farming techniques. And because he’s a good host, he barely had to feign interest.

Steve, on the other hand, disappeared around an hour ago, the very moment Nancy Wheeler showed up late to her own graduation party. The one Steve made them throw. Some part of Billy’s attention is always searching Steve out. It’s been that way since day one. He’s refilling the dip bowl, refreshing the cooler ice, and simultaneously scanning the crowd for Steve’s familiar head of hair. 

In some moment of cosmic hubris, he spots him at the same time the record player stops. The party freezes. Billy settles the glass in his hand carefully back on the table, watching Steve clasp Nancy Wheeler’s hands. They’re gilded by a feathery cone of light, thrown from the overhead string lights. He says something to Nancy, something that inches her eyebrows up to her forehead, and then Billy watches Steve sink down to one knee. 

The entire party takes a palpable breath, holding it. He doesn't actually hear Steve ask his question, but it rings inside his head with perfect clarity anyways, populated by a recollection of romantic movies, commercials, and even the dusty memory of his old man, dropping to his knee for Susan. _Will you marry me?_ he hears, loud and clear. What Nancy says is less clear, drowned out by clapping and cheers. But he’s heard this answer enough times to know its shape too. _Yes_ . _Yes I’ll marry you._

Steve’s face breaks into a brilliant smile, his dimples appearing, white teeth flashing in the dark. They kiss. More clapping. Billy doesn’t feel any residence inside his body. He’s 10,000 miles above their backyard, seeing the scene’s sketch, but vague on the details. Someone clasps him on the shoulder. He returns to the moment with a hazy blink. 

Tommy’s stupid goatee is the first thing he focuses on. He’s giving Billy a shit-eating grin. Billy shakes his hand off him and goes back to picking up the cups so he has something to do with his hands. “Our boy’s an honest man!” says Tommy, perching on the edge of the table. Billy reaches around him for an abandoned beer bottle. 

“Not quite honest yet,” he says. 

Tommy’s pause prompts him to look up. He watches his smile smooth into a smirk, the goatee twitching under his lip. “Did you know he was gonna do that?” 

He shrugs. Steve told him a month ago he was thinking about popping the question when Nancy graduated. He’s not surprised. Resigned maybe. That’s closer. “He might’ve mentioned it,” he says. 

“Should we congratulate the lucky bastard?” says Tommy, waggling his eyebrows. Billy looks beyond his shoulder. Nancy and Steve are standing close, forehead to forehead. Connecting at every point of their bodies, and only growing closer. He pulls away from the table, arms stacked with dishes. The backdoor of their house reveals a soft square of light, illuminating the kitchen. 

“Be my guest,” says Billy, stepping around Tommy. After all, he’s a good host. And the party isn’t over yet. 

* * *

Hours later, the last guests stumble home, leaving their little house blessedly empty. Billy fills the sink up with soapy water and starts working on the dirty dishes. Behind him, the back door slides open. Closes. Steve moves next to him, shoulder brushing against Billy’s. He’s warm, even through his shirt. Billy steps away from him. 

“Did you see Will Byers with his new ‘friend’?” says Steve, reaching for a plate to rinse. Billy shrugs. Truly, he only looked at one person all night. A part of him thinks Steve should know that by now. 

Again, he feels far away from himself, watching Steve scrub at a splotch of cheese. His face is flushed from alcohol, blood probably thrumming inside him. Billy reaches around him for a tea towel to dry his hands off with, and he spends a few moments concentrating on that, clearing away all the soap bubbles until his skin is clean and dry. 

Steve says his name. It’s so stupid. Even now, Billy snaps to attention hearing that. His name in Steve Harrington’s mouth. “You okay?” says Steve, when Billy looks up at him. 

“Was he that dorky little blonde kid? With the glasses?” says Billy. His voice sounds weird, so he clears his throat. It occurs to him he hasn’t spoken in maybe hours. 

Steve’s mouth twitches. “Yeah. He met him at art camp. Ethan, I think he said.” 

Ethan. Ethan and Will Byers. Billy hums, leaning against their counter, arms crossed over his chest. Steve takes a moment to observe him. He knows what Steve is doing; he’s trying to work Billy out. Right now, he probably has a few theories, but none of them are likely correct. And then he’ll sit on them, letting the worst ones fester. He makes himself smile. 

“Congratulations, by the way,” says Billy. He’s been thinking about saying that for hours now. How he’d do it. If it would sound genuine. Steve’s little smirk wilts. Billy wonders what Steve hears in his voice and if it reinforces any of his theories. 

“Thanks,” he says. “You know, I didn’t even have a ring. That was embarrassing.” 

“Why didn’t you wait?” he says. 

Steve shrugs. He’s turning one of their plates around, giving it all his attention. “The moment just seemed right. I mean, all her friends were there. Her parents. It just kind of happened.” 

It just kind of happened. Huh. Billy sucks on his teeth, fingers twitching against his arm for a cigarette. Four months since the last one—mostly, he’s over the cravings, but he misses the ritual of it. “Well. She didn’t seem to mind.” 

A pretty flush suffuses Steve’s face again, made prettier by his grin. His eyes drift away from Billy. He wants to grab Steve’s jaw and force him to come back. 

“Yeah. It feels crazy. I feel crazy right now,” mutters Steve. “Like, look at this.” When Steve holds his hand up, it’s shaking. 

“Want me to bring you back to reality? I’ll tell you about the different types of manure you can buy—oh, there are types by the way.” 

Steve laughs, breathless and genuine. That horrible knot inside him uncoils, just a little. He finds himself smiling, for the first time all night. “Yeah? You laughing at me, pretty boy?” says Billy, stepping into Steve’s space, caging him against the sink. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there to save you,” says Steve. 

“You should be sorry. I had to listen to that shit for like an hour,” he says. “Like _literally_ shit.” 

“Mm, you must be tired.” Their shadows mingle, thrown along the tile by the low light. Billy puts his hand on Steve’s hip. His warmth slips into him, traveling the length of his arm. He keeps his hand there for just a beat, then nudges Steve aside so he can reach the drying rack. The dishes plink delicately together, all stacked away. 

They’re from the Harrington house. Steve’s mom gifted them to Billy as a housewarming present nearly four years ago, when they first moved in with each other. Steve’s presence hovers just behind him. The quality of the air changes in his lingering silence. 

“Think I’m gonna stay with Nancy tonight,” says Steve. Nancy, who left her own party early because she had an appointment out in Lawrenceville tomorrow morning. 

He rolls back the scoff in his throat. “Sure,” he says, forcing himself to be casual. “She’s your, uh, your fiancee now.” 

“Jesus, that sounds weird,” mumbles Steve. His shadow shifts. Billy half-turns to see him holding a hand against his pinkened cheek, looking off to a distant point. 

“Yeah.” Billy privately thinks it sounds unbearable. “You want me to save any of that pasta salad for you?” That seems to break Steve away from his thoughts. 

“Oh, yeah. I love your pasta salad. Thanks.” He touches a hand to Billy’s side, a mirror of where Billy touched him, and pads away to his room. 

He stares at the oven clock until 11:17 becomes a wavering blur. When he blinks the time back into focus, it’s five minutes to midnight. The night is still young, he tells himself, carefully spooning pasta salad into a couple of Tupperware containers. Steve will have lunch for the rest of the week. 

* * *

**September, 1975**

_The blood on his face is starting to dry. It itches, and it smells like a penny, and Billy can still taste it between his teeth. Dad takes a while to get to the school, so the taste has been in his mouth for a while. Billy’s almost used to it by now. When he does get there, he gives Billy a loaded stare before disappearing into the principal’s office._

_As Billy understands it, he might be suspended. He doesn’t know what he’s going to do if he has to stay home for a week. He thinks it might be worse than moving here in the first place._

_The principal’s door clicks closed behind Neil and stays that way. He can’t hear even a whiff of what they’re saying, but that doesn’t really matter—he’ll hear about it later. He won’t stop hearing about it._

_Billy looks down at his knuckles. They’re red from punching Caleb in the face. He threw the first punch, yet somehow he’s the one who came away with a bloody nose. Dad won’t like that, either. If Billy gets in fights, he’s supposed to win them. He’ll be hearing about that, too._

_Every once and awhile, Billy makes eye contact with the receptionist and he tries to smile when she does. He should probably get friendly with her now. The receptionist at his last school knew him so well she kept out a bowl of Hershey kisses just because Billy liked them._

_When he hears the sound of a door opening, he automatically looks at the principal’s door, but it’s still closed._

_“This is your third tardy, Mr. Harrington,” he hears the receptionist saying. Billy swivels back around in his chair and finds himself looking at a boy his age. He has messy, dark hair, a big eyes, and moles dotted along his skin. He reminds Billy of one of Max’s barbies. Pretty. The moment he thinks it, Billy digs his fingernails into his wrist._

_He realizes he’s been staring when he sees the boy’s eyes widen at him. Maybe he’s bleeding more than he thought. Absently, Billy scratches at the blood under his nose, and some of it flakes away onto his basketball shorts._

_"Sorry,” mumbles the boy, snapping his attention back to the receptionist._

_“Let’s try not to make it a habit, okay? No more phone calls home.” She gives the boy a smile, and Billy wonders if he’s the sort to be friendly with the receptionist too._

_“Sorry,” he says again. “Last time. Promise.”_

_His big eyes flicker back over to Billy while he waits for the receptionist to write him a hall pass and Billy feels like he should look away._

_The phone rings and he does. He hears a series of mumbled curses from the receptionist, and then the neat clicking of the phone in its receiver. “Alright,” she says, “I just need to step away for a moment. You stay put, Mr. Hargrove,” she says to Billy. “And you Mr. Harrington, this is your last hall pass.”_

_The boy takes it and doesn’t move. Both him and Billy watch her huffing and puffing around her little desk until the front door shuts behind her. The boy hikes his backpack higher—it’s a new Jansport to match his brand new Nikes—and turns towards Billy._

_“What happened to your face?” he says._

_Billy frowns at him. He wonders if he should tell him what happened, but he doesn’t wonder for long. The truth floats out of him. “Punched Caleb Martin,” says Billy, rubbing at the flakes of blood under his nose again._

_The boy’s lip twitches. “I bet he deserved it.”_

_Billy thinks about Caleb calling him a pussy when he wouldn’t play baseball with him. “Yeah,” he says, “he did.”_

_The boy’s sudden smile reveals perfectly straight teeth, like he had braces. He looks even more like a barbie when he smiles. Billy looks away from him, suddenly aware of how dirty he is in his thrift store clothes and with his face covered in blood._

_“Are you in trouble?” says the boy._

_Billy looks at the principal’s door again. Still shut. Still silent. “They might suspend me.”_

_“That’s not so bad. You wouldn’t have to go to school for like a whole week!” he says and Billy doesn’t say anything back. He doesn’t have a chance to. The door cracks open, making him jump. Dad walks out first, his jacket folded over his arm. The principal looks at Billy over his shoulder, glasses sliding down her nose._

_“Mr. Hargrove,” she says, nodding to him._

_“Let’s go Billy,” says Dad, walking ahead of him. Slowly, Billy gets off the bench. His eyes flicker to the clock. 11:17 and he’s already getting kicked out of school. At least they’ll catch the noon game. Dad likes watching the noon game._

_“Your name’s Billy?” says the boy. When Billy stops, he adds, “I’m Steve.” He smiles his straight-toothed smile again._

_Billy suppresses the urge to smile back. “See you in a week, Steve,” he says and follows Dad outside._

* * *

**June, 1990**

By the time Steve leaves, it’s past midnight. Billy spends some time folding their laundry and putting it away. Tuesday is laundry day. Steve’s clothes have been sitting in a basket next to the dryer for two days now, becoming more and more crinkled every morning he wakes up late, rushes to get ready, and tears through them looking for a work shirt. 

He holds up one of Steve’s shirts to himself. The one he wore tonight. The one he got engaged in. Bringing it to his nose, he smells the complex aroma of Steve’s nice cologne, his shampoo, and the slight musk at the collar from his sweat. He was probably so nervous. Steve sweats like a hog when he’s nervous. 

Billy expertly undoes the buttons, shrugs out of his own t-shirt, and slips the shirt on. It’s tight in his torso, loose in the shoulders. He’s stockier than Steve. But, looking in the bathroom mirror, it seems to fit. At least enough for Billy’s purposes. 

He fixes up his hair, which is long enough to graze his shoulders. Steve’s hairspray is still out from this morning, so he gives his front curls a few spritzes of that. About a year ago, Steve bought him a new earring. A real gold cross. He finds it in the medicine cabinet and switches out the hoop. 

Billy hesitates for only a moment, hand hovering over the cabinet drawer before he slowly pulls it out. Nancy’s forgotten tube of lipstick glints up at him. A deep red shade. Merlot, the bottle says. Billy carefully dabs some of it onto his finger, which he presses to the center of his lip. 

He rubs his lips together until they glisten, red and swollen. When he shuts the bathroom light off, his features plunge into shadow. He smiles at his reflection. 

* * *

The particular bar he’s looking for is about thirty-five minutes outside of Hawkins, wedged between a Little Hong Kong 3 and a dry cleaners. Mary’s, it’s called. Just about the only gay bar in all of Indiana. 

Billy takes up his usual spot by the bar, right in front of his favorite tender. Not Mary, but Wilma, current owner after Mary retired. She immediately pushes a neat whiskey into his hands. 

“Don’t you look fancy tonight,” she says, grinning her gapped teeth at him. She has two nose piercings and a shaved head. Her piercings wiggle when she smiles. Billy wonders occasionally how she found herself in Indiana, but their small talk has yet to creep beyond occupation and name. And Steve. 

“So. Harrington popped the question to his girl,” says Billy, swirling the contents of his drink before taking a hearty sip. Wilma makes a motherly clucking noise. He keeps his nose in his drink so he doesn’t have to entertain any looks of pity. 

“You know, 50% of people get divorced these days. Hell, I’ve been divorced twice,” she says. 

He feels his eyebrows raise. She grins when he looks up at her, then motions for his drink, filling it up another shot. “On the house, babe. Take the night to feel bad. Then figure out if you can be happy for him.” She pats his hand, drawing away when a customer flags her over. Billy stares at his wavering reflection in his whiskey. He doesn’t need to take a day to figure out if he can be happy for Steve. Billy already knows the answer.

By the time he finishes his drink, a nice buzz hums inside him. He almost feels good. At least good enough to smile back at the guy who sits next to him. He’s taller than Billy. Hair long around his ears. Brown-haired. That piques his interest. 

The guy motions to Billy’s drink. “You look like you could use another,” he says over the crowd. 

Leaning into him, Billy says, “Truthfully, I could use more than that.” 

Mouth ticking up into a crooked grin, he flags a barback over. “Can we get a couple more of these?” he says. When he looks back at Billy, he says, “I’m Callum by the way.” 

Billy raises his empty drink. “Billy.” 

Callum scratches at his eyebrow. The grin turns into something sheepish. “I gotta be honest. I already kinda knew that.” 

The barback settles down two more neat whiskeys and Billy combines them into a single glass. He raises an eyebrow over the rim. “Oh? My own personal stalker, huh?” 

Callum laughs. It’s a nice sound. Or maybe Billy’s just getting drunk. “I’ve just noticed you here a few times. Finally worked up the courage to say something tonight.” 

Billy bites at his reddened lips, appraising him from under the fan of his eyelashes. A slow rising up and down that makes Callum blush. “I’m glad you did.” 

Callum isn’t drinking anything besides beer, so Billy tips his drink against his lips, feeding him the rim until his lips turn glossy and wet. He tracks the slow bob of his throat, wondering if he’ll look similar swallowing around Billy’s cock. He places a casual hand on the back of Callum’s nape. 

“You wanna go somewhere a little quieter?” says Billy, already pushing his stool back. Callum nods quickly. He’s so eager. Young looking despite his height. He can’t be older than twenty. 

Billy waits for him to stand and pay. He walks him to his car with a hand on his back.

* * *

Callum kisses him first, tentative and soft. Billy indulges him for one moment before moving his attentions to his neck, where he sucks a livid bruise into his pulse point. When Billy pulls away, Callum is breathing hard, dark hair hanging in front of his face. Glinting under the streetlight, his eyes seem green. In the shadows, brown. 

He pulls his earlobe into his mouth, whispers against the sensitive skin there, “We could go back to my place. Roommate’s gone,” and Callum nods. 

So they drive the dark Hawkins roads back to his and Steve’s house, a brick ranch with a neat lawn and two little potted flowers on the front step. Callum is already on him before they’ve even stepped inside. He keeps mouthing at Billy’s neck, rutting his hips against his ass. He can feel the hot ridge of his cock. 

Finally, he manages to grapple the lock open. He pulls Callum through the house, fielding his inquisitive kisses, until he reaches Steve’s room. He kicks the door open behind him. 

Steve’s scent sits heavily in the air. Even pressed against Callum’s throat, all he can smell is Steve. His cock kicks hard in his jeans. 

“Lie back,” whispers Billy, pushing at Callum’s shoulders until he’s prone on the bed, shirt untucked and pushed up. Billy sees a fine trail of hair leading into his pants. It’s thinner than Steve’s. 

He runs a fingertip along it, satisfied to see his cock bulging the front of his jeans with its thick line. Smaller than Steve too. Billy brushes his finger from his trail of hair, over the belt buckle, to the fat outline of his cockhead. It twitches beneath him. 

He deftly undoes his belt, clinking it open. His zipper comes down so easily, revealing more of his dark hair peering out from the white band of his briefs. His cock pushes against the band, leaving a wet spot. Billy rubs at it until Callum is gasping beneath him, dark hair fanned over Steve’s covers. 

“Yeah?” says Billy. 

“Shit, yeah, yes,” says Callum. Billy slowly pulls the band of his briefs down, exposing him. He groans when Billy wraps him in his hand, just testing his weight. Billy’s hard too, but his arousal seems secondary. He likes watching him come apart on Steve’s bed. He’s going to make such a mess. 

Billy leans down, takes his cock into his mouth, and gives him only a few more pumps before he’s spilling across his tongue. Billy quickly pulls away, just the slightest trace of bitterness on his lips, and Callum comes all up his belly, wetting the hem of his shirt. Steve’s shirt, too. 

Pearly ropes of come glisten on his fist under the moonlight. Billy wipes his hand against Steve’s sheets. He waits for Callum’s breathing to even out before moving away. 

After a stretch of silence, Callum whispers, “Holy shit, I’ve never actually—never actually done anything like that before.” 

Billy observes the wet smear of come on Steve’s bed. He only hums in agreement. 

* * *

**August, 1980**

_Billy feels like he’s done nothing but wait around all day, even while doing other things, like hanging out with Tommy or cleaning out the garage with Dad. Every moment before Steve calls him feels endured. And then Steve does call him, while they’re all eating dinner. The phone rings three times. Neil eyes Billy. Eyes the phone._

_He creaks up from the table and pulls the phone off the receiver. “Hargrove residence,” he says. Billy looks down at his plate of peas, blanched and unsalted. He spears one on the tine of his fork, lines up another, and spears that one. He hears Neil say, “I’m sorry Steve. Billy can’t come to the phone right now. We’re eating dinner. I’ll have him call you back when we’re done.” He hangs up, sits back down, and pointedly watches Billy until he eats all his peas._

_He keeps watching him, seeming expectant. When they’re done, Billy stands from the table and collects everyone’s plate. He says to Susan, “Thank you for dinner. It was great.” And Neil’s face levels out, satisfied. For now. He looks at the clock, wondering how many more minutes, seconds, moments, he’ll have to endure before he can head over to Steve’s._

_Around seven-thirty, after they’ve all watched an episode of All In the Family together under duress, Neil tells him, “Be home by ten.”_

_Billy nearly eats shit biking over to Steve’s. He takes the footpath in the woods that leads to the Harrington backyard, bumping over roots, holes, and vines, until he eventually skids to a stop on the smooth concrete surrounding the pool. Dusk touches the air, invigorating the window light. Through them, Billy can see Steve putting away the remains of his dinner._

_He hardly ever eats with his parents. He definitely doesn’t ever have to sit through an episode of All In the Family. Billy lets his bike rest against the side of the house and raps at the back door. He laughs when Steve startles._

_He got a tan at camp. Maybe got taller too. Billy watches his shirt riding up as he stretches his arms over his head, revealing a trail of dark hair. About two summers ago, he got that. Billy hasn’t been able to stop looking at it. Especially when they go swimming. The showers after basketball practice are the worst._

_Steve pushes the door open, letting out a waft of air conditioning. The Harrington house is always freezing. Billy pushes inside. He wants to hug Steve or something, but they don’t really do that kind of shit anymore. They’re fifteen._

_So he clasps Steve on the shoulder, once, and pushes past him to rummage through his fridge even though he just ate. The Harringtons always have good food. The best snacks, the best drinks. On brand Cola. “Your parents here?” says Billy, eyeing the beer cans in the door._

_Steve comes up behind him. He’s a field of warmth brushing over Billy’s baby hairs, standing them on end. “Nope,” he says, popping the p. Billy swipes two beers for them, already heading toward the den._

_Last Christmas, Steve got an Atari. Billy turns it on, plopping down onto the plush carpet. When Steve sits beside him, his knee brushes against Billy’s. It’s probably accidental, but his attention zeros in on the point of heat. He makes himself concentrate on setting up their game._

_They play three rounds of Pong. Every time Steve loses, Billy makes him take a sip of beer. They run out of beer pretty fast. He’s feeling a little buzzed by the third can. Steve dies again and, laughing, throws the controller down._

_Billy’s stomach does a weird flip when Steve lolls his head over, looking at him. Somehow, it feels worse than being in the showers together. “Feels like you’ve been gone forever,” murmurs Billy._

_“Only all summer,” says Steve, rolling his eyes. “Jesus, I need to tell Dad I don’t want to go back there next year. It’s so boring.”_

_“You see that Christi girl again?” says Billy. Steve said he hooked up with her last summer. Touched her boobs over the shirt. A lot of the guys on the basketball team talk shit about girls, and Billy guesses he does too, even though he’s never hooked up with one. Thinking about Steve doing anything they talk about makes him feel weird, though._

_Steve shrugs. “Yeah. Nothing really happened.”_

_“Oh, nothing really happened, huh?” says Billy. “What, she let you touch her mosquito bites again?” Steve’s eyes narrow and his mouth twitches like he’s amused. Billy distracts himself with a sip of beer._

_“Maybe she did. What about you? Tommy says some girl from the cheerleading squad wants to ask you out?” Steve’s talking about a girl named Sarah. The guys from the team won’t fuckin’ stop talking about how she wants Billy to ask her to homecoming. He rolls his eyes._

_“Heard she’s a slut.”_

_“Sounds like good news for you,” says Steve, knocking his shoulder against Billy’s. He doesn’t move away. Billy can feel the heat from his body all along his arm. The hairs on the back of his neck raise._

_“Not my type,” he mutters. Then something occurs to him, prompted to the front of his mind by the thought of Steve’s hands full of sophomore tits. “Hey—look what Tommy boy swiped from his old man.” Billy reaches into his backpack and pulls out the Playboy Tommy showed him last week. He flips it over so Steve can see the cover. His amused breath is warm on the back of Billy’s neck._

_“Holy shit,” says Steve, sounding gleeful. “Lemme see that.” He swipes it from Billy, flipping through the pages, tits flashing and disappearing._

_“Which one of ‘em looks like your girl?” says Billy, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder. His hum vibrates along Billy’s jaw. Steve flips through a couple pages, landing on a girl with bright blonde hair and the biggest tits Billy’s ever seen. She’s straddling a shirtless man. His eyes roam from the tits to his torso, over the ridge of his abs._

_“Shit. Your girl did some growing up this summer,” says Billy. His voice comes out soft, only a whisper. Steve makes another humming noise. He continues to flip lazily through the pictures, pausing occasionally, before moving on. From this position, Billy can see the spread of Steve’s thighs. The outline of his dick through his basketball shorts._

_He’s hard. The thought sketches through his brain, a beat after he sees the obvious outline. Billy tries to swallow, throat blanching of all moisture. He’s seen Steve’s dick before in the showers. Soft, hanging between his long legs._

_But here Steve is, flipping through the Playboy, cock hard and pressing obscenely against his basketball shorts. And it seems much different. Especially since Billy’s hard too. He wasn’t hard when he first took the magazine out, or even when Steve started flipping through it. But he is now. Aching almost._

_Some backdoor part of his brain maneuvers his hand to Steve’s thigh. He’s only hoping to feel more of that heat, but Steve makes a soft sound when he touches him. Jesus Christ. Billy keeps his hand as still as possible, eyes zeroed in on Steve’s cock. It gives a soft kick. Then another, when Steve turns the page again, revealing a fully naked woman, a thatch of cropped hair between her legs. His hand involuntarily squeezes at Steve’s thigh, eliciting another soft sigh. The sound is sweet in Billy’s ears._

_“Tell me what happened with your girl, Stevie,” whispers Billy._

_“Uh. We kissed, made out,” Steve whispers back at him._

_“You touch her tits?” he wonders._

_"Yeah,” says Steve. And then his hand slides on top of Billy’s. Billy’s hips hitch forward. “Shit, man,” laughs Steve._

_"Yeah?” says Billy. He slides their hands a little higher up his thigh. “Was it good?”_

_Steve kind of leans back into him. He nods his head, just a little. “Yeah. It was good.”_

_“Tell me what else happened,” says Billy. Their hands are so close to his cock. He wants to see Steve. He wants to hold him. Taste him. The thought almost startles him out of—whatever this is. He’s never thought about that before. He drags the idea back into his mind, thinking it over until it doesn’t seem so shocking. He wonders what Steve would taste like._

_“She, uh, she got so wet man.” His cock twitches again, and Billy huffs out a small groan. Maybe it’s him who moves their hands, maybe it’s Steve, but suddenly his palm is rubbing over Steve’s hard cock through his basketball shorts._

_“Shit,” Steve half-groans-half-laughs. Billy lets out a hysterical breath of laughter too. He can’t fucking believe this is happening but he doesn’t want it to stop._

_“What else?” he prompts, afraid if he doesn’t keep talking, Steve will get weird and make him stop. He keeps rubbing his hand along his cock, mesmerized by the feeling of it. Steve’s bigger than he is. Probably, he should feel jealous about that, but he only feels excited. He really wants to see him, but that feels like the wrong line to cross. Like it might break them out of this weird spell._

_“Smelled her on me for days after,” continues Steve. “On my fingers. I made her come like that.”_

_“She do anything to you?” Billy’s cock throbs in his jeans. It feels good. He keeps pulsing it against the rough fabric, the wetness growing at his tip helping the slide. Steve’s entire body shudders when his thumb rubs over the head of his cock, so he does it again, and again._

_“Sucked me off,” he gasps. “Jesus, Billy—” and then Billy feels a spreading warmth against his hand as Steve goes rigid beneath him. He realizes, belatedly, that Steve is coming. Coming into his hand. He pulses his cock again, desperately, until he’s coming too. Billy bites at his lip to keep the moan back. Even after he’s done, his cock keeps throbbing._

_He realizes his hand is still on Steve’s dick, so he moves away, reluctantly sitting back. Now that he’s blown a load, he feels like he can finally think. Which isn’t ideal. The quality of their silence becomes strained. He thinks through a scrolling list of things to say. How to shrug this off._

_When Steve clears his throat, the sound is loud and startling. “So,” he says. Then he starts laughing again. Deep belly laughter. “Never done that before,” he pants. “Holy shit. Holy fucking shit.”_

_The tension around them breaks. “Me neither,” says Billy. He shifts around uncomfortably. “Think I gotta borrow some pants, man.”_

_Still laughing, Steve says, “Sure thing.”_

* * *

**June, 1990**

A weight dips the bed, and Billy finds himself rolling into a warm body. He hears, through the mug of his sleep-brain, Steve saying, “Mornin’ Sleeping Beauty.” 

“Mmm,” Billy groans, trying to burrow deeper into the pillow. 

Steve settles down next to him, on top of the blanket. “You sleep in here last night?” 

“Mhm,” he groans again. 

“Good night?” 

“Nnn.” 

“Want breakfast? Bacon? Eggs, maybe?” prompts Steve. Finally, Billy blinks his way to consciousness, opening his eyes to find Steve grinning down at him, his chin rested in the palm of his hand. Billy sees a purple bruise on his neck and any good mood he might have won himself last night disappears. 

“You always burn the bacon,” he snaps. 

Steve’s smile only grows, illuminating his face. “Damn. Do we know anyone who can make a good breakfast? Anyone at all?” 

He drags himself into a sitting position and scratches at his hair. “You’re an asshole.” 

“Feed me and see if I change,” wheedles Steve. 

Billy takes a quick glance at his watch, glad to see he hasn’t entirely wasted the day moping around in Steve’s bed. It’s eleven. Callum left around three last night. Billy counts to ten and throws the covers back on fifteen. Steve wafts after him into the kitchen, looking too fucking happy. 

In the middle of whisking eggs, he realizes it’s a Friday and Steve isn’t at work. “Skipping school, Harrington?” says Billy, adding creamer to the eggs. Steve is a warm presence beside him, measuring out coffee grounds. Now _that_ he can make. Billy always leaves the coffee to Steve. His cup tastes like shit if he doesn’t. 

Steve clears his throat. “Dad gave me the day off after I told him the news,” he says. “About me and Nancy,” he adds, like Billy could have possibly forgotten. 

Billy sucks on his teeth. He concentrates on finding the right pan—their only good pan—and doesn’t answer until he has it settled onto the stove at the right heat. He can feel Steve observing him. “That’s nice of him,” he says mildly. 

Steve scoffs. “Knowing him, he’ll give me like double the work on Monday, but—figured I could use some time off.” 

“Got any big plans for this spontaneous vacation of yours?” says Billy, adding the eggs to the pan. They simmer, bubbling up. Steve goes quiet beside him. Only the noises of popping oil and the coffee maker gurgling cut the silence. He glances over at him, finding Steve biting at his lip, big Bambi eyes squinting at a spot on the counter. 

“So,” starts Steve, “I actually have to talk to you about something.” 

Billy’s stomach plummets. The last time Steve started a conversation like that, he said he wanted to marry Nancy fuckin’ Wheeler. He returns his attention to the eggs, starting to scramble them. 

“Should I fuckin’ sit down or something?” 

Steve pours him a cup of coffee, dumps two spoonfuls of sugar into it the way he likes, and scoots the mug across the table. “Maybe just drink that.” So Billy drinks his coffee, trying to calm himself the fuck down even though Steve hasn’t said anything yet. 

“Just tell me,” he says. He clicks the stove off and they descend into silence again. 

“Okay,” says Steve. “Nancy and me, we’re looking for apartments today,” he says. 

Billy pauses with the mug halfway to his mouth. Steve takes a large breath and says, “Nancy thinks it would be a good idea to live together before we get married, so. I won’t be renewing the lease next month.” 

He looks at the eggs in their pan, finding them suddenly unappetizing. “So. You’re moving out,” he says. 

“Not ‘til September, though!” says Steve quickly. “I can help you find a roommate—” 

“Stop,” he hears himself say, voice coming out weird. “Just. Stop for a sec.” 

Steve stops. Billy gulps down coffee, hoping the burn in his throat will distract him from the embarrassing heat pricking at his eyes. It’s so stupid. 

“Billy—” he says, when he’s been quiet for too long. Billy shoots his hand up to stop him. 

“It’s fine. I get it,” he says, every word forcibly rounded of their edges. “You don’t need to find me a roommate.” Billy chugs the rest of his coffee and heads to his room, making sure to lock the door behind him. 

* * *

Only when Billy is sure Steve’s gone does he creep out of his room and get ready for work. He takes a shower, making himself think about all the prep work waiting to greet him; and Callum’s number sitting in the back pocket of his jeans. He wonders if he can get away with going to Mary’s twice in one week.

He pulls on an old t-shirt, his work chinos, and non-slip shoes. There’s a note waiting for him on the counter but he doesn’t touch it. He doesn’t want to read any kind of bullshit apology from Steve. 

The drive out to the diner clears his head a little. It’s a small Mom and Pop place out in Lawrenceville called The Griddle. He takes the backroads, chasing the setting sun in his Camaro. By the time he pulls up to the back lot, it’s four on the dot. 

Their head cook Pedro greets him with his customary two-fingered salute when Billy walks in the back door. He tosses him his apron, then slides a bag of onions down the line for him to prep for the dinner rush. In a way, he looks forward to six hours on the line, thoughts occupied only by what’s in front of him.

The night goes as smoothly as it can. Only a couple returned orders. Billy takes his break around nine. Used to be his smoke break, but now it’s a fifteen minute breather he uses to escape the heat of the kitchen. 

Headlights illuminate the backlot, shining in his eyes. He can only see the silhouette of an approaching car. When the lights cut off, their impression floats in front of him, clouding the face of the man winding down his window. His features resolve slowly, enough so Billy can see he’s smiling. 

“Hey pal, this place any good?” he says. 

He rolls up a shoulder. “Good as anything around here.” 

“Ringing endorsement, huh?”

Leaning over him, a woman with short curly hair says, “We’re passing through from Ontario. Just looking for a place the locals like.” 

Billy’s fingers twitch for a cigarette in his pockets. “Pretty much the only people you’ll find in there.” 

Her smile barely wavers. “How about somewhere out west? Know any place?” 

He pauses, repeating her question back to himself. Thinks of California and waking up at seven to get in the car and head to the diner. Their diner. The burn for a cigarette sings inside him. “If you find yourself out in Santa Clarita, you’ll want the The Yellow Sol, right off 280.” 

Her smile crinkles her eyes up. He can see them even in the dark, wide and brown. “I thought you looked like a man who’s seen the sun. We’ll have to try it when we get out there. Thank you.” 

The man rolls up the window and gravel crunches as they drive away. 

* * *

He makes it all the way to Linmore Ave, just an intersection from home, before skidding around and heading in the direction of the gas station. Waiting in line, carton of Red softs in hand, he thinks about Steve. Usually he waits up for Billy on the nights he works so Billy can scrounge together whatever ingredients they have in the fridge and make them a midnight meal. 

But tonight maybe Steve won’t be home. Maybe he’ll be with Nancy, discussing their favorite apartments of the day. 

Billy already has a cigarette in his mouth before he even reaches the Camaro. One handed, he rummages around for the Zippo in his dash—he never took it out. A quick roll of the wheel and he’s sucking an ember to life. Sweet smoke curls down his throat, unwinding every keyed up muscle on its way down. Shit, it tastes good. 

He smokes the whole thing before he even pulls into their driveway. Steve’s Beamer sits in its customary spot, and he doesn’t realize he’d expected to find an empty driveway until he sees it. The rest of the tension inside him falls away, notch by notch, step by step. 

All the lights are off when he steps inside. He eyes the kitchen table, where an empty plate sits, crumbs speaking to a hastily made sandwich. Billy wriggles out another cigarette from his pack and lights it right there in the kitchen. The rap of his boots softens the moment he steps from the kitchen into the carpeted hallway. At its end, Steve’s door is closed. 

His isn’t. Billy pushes at the door with his knuckles, nudging it open onto the image of Steve reclining in his bed. He stops in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with a lazy arm over his head. The smoke from the cigarette floats like fine gauze in the air before disappearing. 

Steve’s eyes narrow at him. “Thought you quit.” 

“Turns out it was just a break.” 

He rolls his eyes. “Okay. Look, I think we need to talk.” 

“Sure you don’t want to pass me a little note first?” 

Steve pushes himself up violently. “What the hell else was I supposed to do? You ignored me all fucking day!” 

They stare at each other. Steve’s eyes are wide and plaintive. Eventually, Billy breaks the moment, sliding away from the door and putting the cigarette out inside a half filled cup of water. Pulling his shirt over his head, he says to the dresser, “I was thinkin’. If you’re moving out, it doesn’t really make sense for me to stay here. Maybe I should head home for a while.” 

Steve’s silence feels palpable, like he could put his hands on it and know its shape. “Are you being serious?” he says in a weird voice. 

Billy shucks out of his pants next. His boxers. Only when he’s completely changed does he turn around and face Steve. He lifts a shoulder. “Haven’t seen the old man in a while.” 

Immediately, Steve says, “You’re not gonna do that.” 

“Why not?” 

“Will you just sit down and talk to me?” Steve moves over on the bed, revealing the impression of his body. Maybe he’s been in here for hours, and his scent will linger when he’s gone. Billy leans into it, only marginally disappointed when the mattress reforms around his weight. Steve eyes him like he’s expecting Billy to do something unexpected. 

Scratching lazily at his incoming stubble, he says, “Find any nice apartments today? Something with a dishwasher maybe? Big yard?” 

“Look, this doesn’t change anything, okay? I’ll live like twenty minutes away.” 

“Sounds like a change to me,” he mutters. 

Steve makes a noise. His annoyed noise. It’s the one that escapes him when he’s getting tired of Billy. “Can you try not to be an asshole for like one second? Just one?” 

His mouth twitches into a smile. He looks over, making sure Steve can see it. “What am I doing? You said you’re moving out. Fine. You want me to throw you a fuckin’ party?” 

Steve’s eyes grow big, then narrow into twin slits. “Uh, you could try sounding, I don’t know, _happy_ for me?” 

He feels his smile melt away. He and Steve stare at one another, silence coiling around them. Steve’s expression doesn’t lift. Billy can only guess at what he looks like. “Happy, huh,” he mutters. The words inside him feel kinetic. Like they’re going to hit with some weight behind them. “Okay. Harrington, I’m so _happy_ you’re hitching your wagon to the girl who fuckin’ stepped out on you. But hey, it’ll probably be different when you’re married.” 

Like smoke, the balance of their conversation evaporates. He can almost feel the heat of Steve’s blood when he shoots up on the bed. “Okay, no. No, I don’t need to listen to you right now. Not when you’re acting like this.” 

“Acting like what? How am I acting, Stevie?” 

Steve makes a nasty scoffing noise. He gets off the bed, stands. Billy forces himself to remain where he is, stretched like a lazy house cat across the covers. 

“Did you, what, think we could keep doing this forever? Playing house? Grow the _fuck_ up.” 

Behind him, the door slams shut. Billy stays where he is for a long time, watching the door’s seam, and when it remains closed, he finally rolls over, pulling the scent of Steve into his nose through the covers.

* * *

Sometime later, he wakes to the sound of a voice. Steve’s. The quality of it sounds rougher inside his room, far away from his dream. He blinks groggily at his bedside table—an overturned file crate Steve hawked from work. He hears more distant speaking. Steve’s on the phone, he realizes, arguing with someone. 

“ _—what_ ? Are you kidding me right now? No, I’m not just _picking_ a fight to pick a fight. Jesus Nance,” he hears. Then a long sigh, while Nancy responds. Steve takes a couple breaths throughout her monologue, like he’s going to interrupt. 

Finally, Billy hears him say, “Yeah, well, fuck me right? We’re only getting married. Sorry I’m finding it a little hard to _‘move on.’_ ” The sound of the phone slamming into the receiver echoes around the house. 

Billy can see Steve’s shadow beneath the door, disturbing the hall light. After a moment, it moves away. He waits until he hears the sound of a chair scraping back to sit up. 

In the kitchen, all the lights are off. Steve is sitting at their breakfast table, head in his hands, shoulders around his ears. He doesn’t look up when Billy walks in. So Billy busies himself with pulling eggs out of the fridge—bacon—oiling up a pan. It’s four in the morning. 

He whisks half and half into the eggs. Seasons them. At the sound of bacon sizzling, Steve finally says, face still in his hands, “What are you doing?” 

Billy adds the eggs to the pan. “Cooking.” 

Over the popping oil, he hears Steve’s bare scoff. “Right. Sorry if I woke you up.” 

“You didn’t wake me up,” lies Billy. They fall into silence again while he works. When everything’s done, he makes up two plates, giving Steve the extra crispy bacon. He slides the plate in front of him and sits down. Steve peeks through his fingers at his food. 

“Thanks,” he says. 

Billy doesn’t say anything. He moves eggs around his plate, staring at Steve. Carefully, he sets the fork aside without taking a bite. “I think we should go somewhere,” he says. 

Steve frowns. “What? What are you talking about?” 

“Before you get married,” says Billy. The word is hard to choke out. Somehow he manages. “Was thinking of seeing my mom’s old place out in Santa Clarita. We could take the Camaro. Drive out there.” 

Steve’s eyes seem so big and dark looking at him. He feels the lightest touch of embarrassment for suggesting it. “A road trip?” says Steve carefully. 

Billy dips his chin down. “Think it could be good.” 

Steve stares at him for a long, long time. Then he picks his fork up, stabbing at some egg. “Alright,” he says, taking a bite. “Let’s do it.” 

  



	2. nightmare street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nancy, Steve and Billy have a little family dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally could die from all your wonderful support and comments! THANK YOU!!!!! Have another angst-filled chapter in thanks.

**September, 1984**

_The worst thing about Hawkins is also the best thing about Hawkins: ain’t nothin to do but fuck around. Billy and Steve skipped last period to drink his old man’s fancy imported beers at the quarry. Harrington’s old man. Not his. Neil hasn’t had anything but Schlitz in the house for years._

_They’re about halfway through the twelve pack. He feels good. Hawkins is slowly sinking into winter, and the air is crisp but still tolerable. Hardly even smells like cow shit._

_Billy looks over at Steve resting against the hood of his Camaro. Anyone else touching it like this would get a gift wrapped punch to the face, but Billy likes having Steve around the car. He was there when he got it a summer ago. Maybe feeling his stare, Steve opens a lazy eye, smile curling up. “We’ll have to bug Carol for the answers to the lit quiz. So be nice to her,” he says._

_“We don’t need fuckin’ Carol. I’ll give you the answers,” says Billy._

_Steve laughs. “You are literally skipping it with me!”_

_“I’ll still give you the answers.” He would. Billy hardly has to study to maintain his steady B in their English class. He’d have an A if he turned in any homework on time, but that’s probably for the best. He won’t need to field any more suggestions about taking AP English next year. There’s no way Steve would take AP English with him._

_“Course you will,” says Steve. “You pull that kind of shit out of your ass.”_

_“Maybe I just do the reading.”_

_Steve squints at him. When he takes a sip from the beer, his lips come away glossy. “I do more reading than you.” He sounds petulant. Billy grins, stealing his beer away and resting his lips in the exact place Steve’s were._

_“I know.”_

_They lapse into comfortable silence. The breeze winds between them, rustling their hair, breaking up the heat at their backs from the car’s hood. “Think I might give you a run for your money, man,” says Steve, and when Billy cocks an eyebrow, he adds, “Guess who I’m studying with tonight?”_

_Billy takes his time swallowing down the beer. When he only raises his eyebrow further, Steve rolls his eyes. “Alright, fine. Nancy Wheeler, you asshole.”_

_He looks almost giddy saying it. The final dregs of beer settle uncomfortably in Billy’s stomach. He crumples the can and tosses it somewhere in the distance. Steve is looking at him, expectant, but Billy knows this is recycled information. He probably told Tommy the moment Wheeler agreed. Billy’s always the last to know about Steve’s girls._

_He shrugs. “Heard she doesn’t put out.”_

_“Yeah, so? We’re just studying.”_

_At his flat look, Steve says, “No, I’m serious!”_

_Billy goes back to examining the sky. Watching the game with Neil suddenly seems more appealing than it did two hours ago. “Seems like a waste of time. Just call that Laurie chick back. Say you’re out back by the bleachers. Bitch will get vertigo dropping to her knees.”_

_Steve snorts. He cracks another beer open, which means they’ll have to stay out here longer. He’s already itching to leave. “It’s not like that with Nancy. We’re—friends.”_

_That’s news to him. He eyes Steve, wondering how many study sessions he’s already had with the frigid bitch of Hawkins. That itch inside him evolves into something new. New and still familiar; it feels like shrugging back into a favorite piece of clothing. He feels mean. Lips peeling back from his teeth into a grin, he says, “Then you won’t mind if someone else fucks her first.”_

* * *

**June, 1990**

Billy usually works the lunch shift on Saturdays with Sunday off, but the Camaro’s been acting up. Eating up his spare change. So, he decides to cover an extra lunch shift on Sunday. The kitchen is always a wreck at the end of the week—that’s when they get their weekly orders in. He spends about half his shift elbows deep preparing produce for the next five days. 

By the time he trudges home, his wrist has a crick to it from all that steady chopping. He’s still wringing it out when he walks into the kitchen, finding Steve and Nancy sitting at the table, sharing a bottle of wine. He knows Nancy brought it. Steve never drinks wine when she’s not around. 

“Hey,” says Steve. Nancy doesn’t say anything. 

“Hey,” he says back, pulling a mug off their hook and slumping into a chair across from them. He pulls the half-empty bottle to himself, wine glugging into the cup. He fills it almost all the way, eyeing Nancy over the rim. To her credit, she only looks mildly disgusted when he takes a loud, slurping sip. 

“This some kinda intervention?” he says to Steve. They share a look, him and Nancy. It niggles at him, that they even have a look to share. He takes another gulp of Nancy’s wine.

“Just needed to discuss some things,” says Nancy vaguely. 

Billy narrows his eyes at Steve, waiting for a better answer. It doesn’t come. Smoothly, he changes the subject. “We should discuss that road trip while everyone’s here,” he says. 

Nancy’s delicate brows pull together. “Road trip?” 

Billy can’t help his smile of delight. Something the princess doesn’t know. “Yeah, was thinking me and Stevie could drive to my ma’s old place out in Santa Clarita before everything’s all official with you two.” 

“We could stop through Colorado, see Las Vegas. Tucson. The works,” adds Steve. Billy feels his grin spreading in response to Nancy’s answering frown. She replenishes her glass a respectable amount. 

“So, wait. When would you take this trip?” She says this to Steve. 

Billy answers for him. “No rush, but I’d like to head out there before the summer really starts and it gets too hot.”

She implores Steve with another one of their top secret looks, and by the time she turns back to Billy, Steve is frowning. “I think we should wait and see,” says Nancy. She places a light hand on Steve’s arm. “Steve, you know I wanted to take that trip to Italy, and I’ll need some help getting things together for the wedding before that—unless, did you want to wait? I know we talked about having the wedding early next year, but we can always move the date. It’s all so early still.” 

The last rays of sunlight filter through the window above the sink, spilling across the table. When she lifts her glass to her lips, the wine almost looks like blood. Steve’s frown doesn’t move except to deepen. He scratches at his hair, giving Billy a look, but this one isn’t shared. He has no idea what it means. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess we’ll have to talk about it more.” 

Nancy nods. When she looks at Billy, she seems pleased, which is a combination that doesn’t happen often. Her looking his way and looking happy. Her small mouth half-turns into a smile. “Oh—before I forget. You wouldn’t happen to know where that dish I left here is? The ceramic one? I wanted to take it back before the move.”

* * *

Steve is up far earlier than Billy the next morning. Then again, he always is. Even when he’s late for work. Today, he’s very late. Billy stumbles out of his room around nine-fifteen, fifteen minutes after Steve’s supposed to be gone and in the office. He barely looks up when Billy walks in. Not even when he makes a racket preparing his coffee, or when he fucks with the cabinet in search of cereal—it wobbles. Billy observes the hinges and makes a mental note to stop by the hardware store for some new screws. 

When he shuts the cabinet, he finds Steve browsing over him, eyes shadowed by deep set bags like he hasn’t slept. In one hand he has a coffee cup. In another, a pen. Billy finally notices the sheafs of paper sitting in front of him. He sees the word ‘application’ at the top. 

“You have any plans tonight?” says Steve. 

The thought pops into his head, buffered only by a moment of consideration, before he says, “Was thinking about stopping by the house. Seeing the old man.” 

Steve stops short. He can practically see his thoughts recalibrating. “Okay...What about around seven? Will you be here?” 

Billy sits down. He pulls the application across the table so he can look at it. It’s a rental application, one Steve is only half-way through filling out. He swipes the pen from Steve and busies himself with filling in all the blank places. 

“Billy,” says Steve, sounding irritated. 

“Yeah, I could be here. Why?” he says. He finishes the first page and turns to the next. “Is this place out in Cumming? Right by the University?” he says. That’s about a thirty minute drive away. 

“Yeah, think so—anyways, I was thinking maybe Nance could come over tonight. Have some dinner with us.” 

“Sure.” 

“It’ll probably be around 7:30,” Steve continues. 

Billy only has to think a second about Steve’s credit score. He dutifully pens it in. “Sounds good.” 

The papers disappear violently, a penmark dragging over the page where his writing was interrupted. “Would you look at me?” snaps Steve. 

Billy rubs at his mouth, feeling the scratch of stubble under his palm. It would cut someone up about now. Paint marks into sensitive skin. Finally, he looks at Steve. “Okay. Obviously you want to tell me something. So just say it, man. You’re already late.” 

“Half-day,” Steve mutters, rolling his eyes. Like Billy should know that. Like maybe he already mentioned it and Billy doesn’t remember. “You know, it might be nice. You and Nance, you don’t always—get along. I just think dinner might be...nice. For us.” 

For us. Huh. Billy wonders if he means nice for him and Billy or for him and Nancy. He takes a moment to examine Steve. His hair is unbrushed. Shirt wrinkled. He steals a glance at the dryer, noticing another mysteriously apparated basket of work shirts, obviously disrupted. He’ll have to hang those up later when Steve is gone. 

Tapping his fingers on the table, he says, “Yeah, sounds _nice_.” 

“Okay, good, so you’ll—you won’t say anything to her? Tonight?” 

That annoys him. He wants to snap, _only if she doesn’t say something first._ But Steve’s irritation has morphed into something that looks desperate. So, Billy says, earnestly, “I’ll be nice, Stevie. I promise.”

* * *

The old house on Cherry hasn’t changed in the four years he’s been out of his old man’s hair. The perpetual oil spot marking Susan’s parking spot has faded in that time, but other than that, he almost feels eighteen again, looking at the neat lawn, the slightly crooked porch. Neil’s old tan Ford. 

Billy parks on the street, right over the oil spot, and walks up the front steps with his hands in his pockets. The screen door slams behind him, dimming the sun. He knocks on the door three times, and hears Neil shuffling around after the first knock. 

The door swings open. Neil’s holding a beer, just like Billy knew he would be—the afternoon baseball game is on, after all—and his eyebrows raise only slightly to see him. Maybe Billy’s not as unpredictable as he’d like to imagine. He raises his own six-pack. “Thought the Mets could use some extra support.” 

Neil snorts and opens the door wider for him. Inside is a different story than the outside. Almost all of the furniture he remembers growing up with is gone. All but the plaid couch, slashing across the small living room like an eyesore. Probably smelled too much like smokes for Susan to take with her. 

He settles down beside Neil, cracking him open a beer. His is almost done. Neil takes it from him with a muttered, “Thanks, bud.” They watch the game together, mostly in silence, until the Mets hit their third foul ball. Their shouts mingle together, echoing around the sparse room. 

During the commercial break, Neil gets up, says, “You eat lunch yet?” 

Billy tells him no, so Neil makes them a couple bologna sandwiches, serving them up beside cold cans of Schlitz. When he sits back down, Neil says, “So, you still working out at that diner in Lawrenceville?” 

Bills nods. “Still at the plant?” he wonders, and Neil nods too. Neither of them mentions Steve. 

He doesn’t know why he says it, but Billy says, “The car. She’s been acting up lately. Can’t figure out what it fuckin’ is. Checked the belt, the transmission. She sounds rougher than a twice-fucked whore.” 

Neil barks out a laugh. Rubbing at his mustache, he says, “Could be a hose. Knocked loose, maybe.” 

“Maybe.” 

Neil takes a considering sip of Schlitz. It wets the very ends of his mustache, and Billy watches him scrub it away with a napkin. He does something similar, but with the back of his hand. “Could take a look at it for you, if you’ve got the time.” 

“Alright, yeah. Let’s do it,” he says, nodding once more. 

* * *

It’s nearly eight by the time Billy gets home. He finds Nancy’s car parked in his usual spot when he pulls up and considers boxing her in. He only considers it for a moment before inching up the road and parking beneath a looming magnolia tree instead. 

The entire house smells like garlic when he walks inside. Nancy and Steve are both huddled over the counter, prepping ingredients. Steve looks over his shoulder at Billy and settles his knife down. 

“Hey,” he says, grin coaxing his dimples out. Nancy looks quickly over her shoulder, nods once, and returns to the task of painstakingly cutting celery—with _his_ knife. Billy watches her poor technique in anguish.

“What’s for dinner, honey?” he says, peering over Steve’s shoulder at a mound of onions cut unevenly. 

“Chicken pot pie,” says Nancy, dancing behind them to open the fridge. Billy watches her pull out a couple eggs. When she straightens up and notices him still observing her, she says, “You can sit down if you want. I brought wine. Feel free to help yourself.” 

He looks at the bottle sitting on the kitchen table. Looks at Steve and Nancy taking over _his_ kitchen. Nancy making herself at home with his knife in her hand. Steve returns to his cutting board and Billy can’t resist. He steps in behind him, hand braced along his hip. “What’s this technique called, pretty boy? Never seen it before,” he says, nodding to the uneven onion chunks.

Steve makes a scoffing noise. “Okay, can you, like, _not_ watch me do this?” 

“But I like watching you,” says Billy, hooking his chin over Steve’s shoulder. In the corner of his eye, he sees Nancy’s head raise their way. 

“I’m gonna cut my frickin’ finger off. You won’t like watching that.” 

Billy tuts. Steve hasn’t batted him away yet, so he tests his luck, nudging Steve back against him with the hand on his hip. He moves easily. “Stevie, I know I’ve taught you better than this.” 

“Yeah well, you’re a better teacher than I am a student.” 

He feels himself grinning, and when he looks down Steve is grinning too. He gives his hip a small squeeze. Then Nancy says, closer to them than he thought, “Why don’t you cut the onions Billy? Steve can help me with the celery.” And Steve’s warmth leaves him when he walks away, now standing side by side with Nancy. The two of them sharing his knife. 

* * *

After a couple glasses of wine, the chicken pot pie seems passable. It would have been much better if he’d made it, he thinks, spearing a piece of chicken and wincing only slightly at its dryness. Across from him, Steve and Nancy are sitting close, sharing a glass of wine. It’s too fucking weird.

He pours himself another glass and slides it down the table to Steve. “Really brings out the chicken’s dry notes,” he says. 

Nancy’s fork pauses mid bite. “If you knew we were overcooking it, why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Someone kicked me out of my kitchen.” 

“And yet you still managed to be there the entire time,” says Nancy. 

Billy bites his lip, trying to suppress a grin. “Call it my party trick—so Italy, huh?” he says, noticing Steve’s cautious look. “What’s happening in Italy?” 

“Well,” says Nancy, wiping at her mouth with a napkin. “I wanted to do some traveling before I start this new job at the Gazette.” 

He hums. “So, is it just you? Anyone else going?” 

Her little mouth tips down into a frown. Billy finds her mouth to be the most expressive part of her face. He likes making it pinch up, like she’s tasted something sour just by listening to him speak. “Only me,” she says. 

He scratches at his stubble, looking at Steve. “Sounds kind of dangerous.” 

She snorts. “Hardly. Besides, I’m meeting some friends there.” 

Huh. Before he can ask another question, Steve says, “You gonna bring me back that coffee we talked about?” 

Watching her watch Harrington is a worthy pastime. Every line in her face changes when she looks at him. For the first time, Billy almost thinks she looks pretty. He wonders if his face does something similar when he looks sat Steve and if he’s as obvious about it. 

“The strongest kind I can find,” she says. 

Harrington’s dimples appear. “The meanest,” he adds. That makes her laugh. Billy doesn’t get it. He looks between them, realizing a moment too late he’s standing outside the circle of an inside joke. He suddenly wishes he hadn’t given away his glass of wine. 

“So I was thinking,” he says, clearing his throat. “Steve and I could take our trip this month. That way, you know, you guys will have time to do whatever for the wedding.” The wedding. He wants to scour the word from his mouth. 

Nancy’s face changes the moment she looks at him, all lightness falling away. He’s almost relieved to see her look more familiar. “Oh. I thought Steve would have talked to you by now about that,” she says. 

“Talked about what?” says Billy. And looking at them exchange another one of their looks, he realizes the circle he’s standing outside extends far beyond an inside joke. 

Steve takes a large gulp of his wine. “Um.” 

“We thought it’d actually make more sense to postpone the trip until after the wedding,” Nancy cuts in. “That way you can enjoy yourselves more, without anything to plan.” 

Billy watches Steve rubbing at his face. He reaches across the table for the wine bottle and takes a sip directly from the spout, chasing away the bitter taste in his mouth. “Oh, did we think that?” he says, rubbing at his growing smile. Steve watches him with a weary expression. 

“It kind of makes sense,” he says slowly. 

“Does it?” says Billy. “A night ago, you wanted to go. Now you don’t. And it’s got me wondering—what coulda happened in one night?” 

“Steve and I just had a talk—” starts Nancy. 

“Oh, I know a little something about your _talks_ ,” says Billy, cutting across Nancy. Her nostrils flare. 

“Billy,” says Steve. Warning.

“Say, did you ever, uh,” he snaps his fingers, like he’s trying to jog his memory, “ever figure out what to do about that Byers’ business? You know, that time you let him _fuck_ you behind Harrington’s back?” 

Wine hits him in the face. He blinks through it. Nancy is standing, glass clutched in her hand like a weapon. “That’s rich coming from you,” she spits, and stomps out of the kitchen, door slamming behind her. Billy wipes at his face, tip of his tongue darting out to taste a droplet of wine. Steve looks between the door and Billy. Makes an annoyed sound. And chooses the door. Billy snatches the bottle up, drinking from it until it’s gone. 

* * *

Nancy and Steve spend about twenty minutes yelling at each other outside before the door slams again, this time admitting Steve back into the house. A smaller slam follows him. His shutting door. Billy looks at it, then forces himself to clean up the remains of dinner, just to give himself something to do. Steve likes to cool down after a fight, but Billy never likes giving him the space to do it. He wants to witness Steve’s grief and be the reason it goes away. 

Tonight, he forces himself to wait, busying himself by cleaning up the kitchen. He dumps the leftover pie into the trash, scrubs the pans, and carefully wipes his knife clean before setting it back in its drawer. 

Then he eyes the basket of shirts, untouched from this morning. He grabs a few hangers from his room. He’s halfway through hanging them up when he hears Steve walk into the kitchen behind him. A chair scrapes back. Steve sighs when he sits in it. “You said you’d be nice,” he says softly. 

Billy doesn’t turn around. “Guess I’m not very good at it.” 

“You are. When you want to be,” says Steve, sounding tired. Billy concentrates on buttoning up the shirt on the hanger.

“You want me to apologize?” he says. 

“No. You wouldn’t mean it.” 

He hangs the shirt up next to the others, on the hook bolted to the washing room door. “Depends on what I’m apologizing for,” he says, finally turning around. Steve has his head rested in his hand, dark circles swallowing the soft brown of his eyes. “Example,” says Billy, “I’m sorry we had to eat that fuckin’ pie. There, see? Perfectly genuine.” 

Steve rolls his eyes, but his mouth twitches. “You’re making my life really difficult, you know that?” 

And suddenly, all levity, if there ever was any, disappears. They stare across the room at each other, silence unyielding. “Guess I’m sorry for that, too,” says Billy.

“Do you know how hard this is for me?” he demands, eyes growing bright. Billy swallows down the instinctive mean comment that springs to mind. He tells himself he needs to let Steve talk. “Like, fuck. My best friend and my—my fucking _fiancee_ can’t even be in the same room together. What do you want me to do? Just. Tell me what to do,” he pleads. 

Billy swallows a few more times, knocking back all the words that don’t sound right until he finds the ones that do. “Go to California with me,” he whispers. 

Steve puts his head back in his hands. “She doesn’t want me to go,” he says. 

“Yeah, I fucking got that,” snaps Billy. 

Steve drags his hands down his cheeks, using them to prop his chin up. He stares at Billy. “She’s my fiancee, and soon she’ll be my wife. That means something. You get that, right?” 

He feels the chords in his throat tighten, a noose. “I get that,” he finally croaks out. And unfortunately, that’s the truth. Billy is unnaturally aware of Nancy Wheeler’s importance in Steve’s life. He’s been aware of it since the first day she showed up, helping him pass English. Something Billy used to do. 

“You can still go with me,” he says. “Even if she doesn’t want you to.”

Steve opens his mouth, and Billy already sees the shape of his words. _I can’t._ So he switches tack, stepping into Steve’s space, taking his jaw between his palms and running his thumbs along the shadows hanging below his eyes. His eyes flutter, then close. “I want to show you California,” says Billy. “That should mean something too.” His voice cracks stupidly, so he clears his throat. 

After a time, Steve says, “California isn’t going anywhere.” Another comment springs to mind. _But I am._ He bites it back, keeping it in his mind to turn over. It hurts to even think. He’s never once considered leaving Steve. 

“Can we just—go to bed?” says Billy, a little desperate. 

Steve nods quickly, standing and circling Billy’s wrist with his hand. He leads Billy to his room. _Their_ room. More often than not, they share it. Just like everything else. 

* * *

**October, 1984**

_To celebrate their win against McCutcheon, some of the guys plan a meetup at the quarry. This week has really dragged on with Neil working the late shift at the foundry, and even though he’ll catch hell for staying out, Billy thinks he’s earned a night to cut loose. It’s been a while._

_He catches up with Steve by his locker after they’ve showered and changed. The locker room is mostly empty by now, so he doesn’t feel weird about going through Steve’s things—it’s a habit. He squints at a stick of deodorant without its top, a pair of boxers with a hole in the crotch, and a couple of BIC lighters._

_Billy grabs one of the lighters. Playing with the flame, he says, “You wanna ride with me to this thing?”_

_“I don’t know if I’m going,” says Steve, shutting his locker._

_“What are you doing instead?” Billy feels himself frowning and he works to level his face out._

_They walk out of the locker room side-by-side, heading to the parking lot. Billy keeps fucking with the lighter while he steals side-eyed glances at Steve. He finds him gnawing on a cuticle each time. Eventually, Billy knocks his hand out of his mouth._

_"You’re thinking real loud over there, Harrington,” says Billy, when Steve makes a disgruntled noise._

_“No, I’m just—Nancy wanted to hang out tonight,” says Steve._

_Billy’s quiet for a moment while he lets that news percolate. Really though, it’s not news. Nancy Wheeler’s name has been coming out of Steve’s mouth more and more. “You think she’ll finally let you fuck her?” he says when they reach their cars._

_Billy leans against the BMW’s driver-side door, blocking Steve’s way. Without missing a step, Steve leans next to him, taking his sweet time lighting a cigarette, and then more time lighting another for Billy._

_After a couple puffs, Steve says around his mouthful of smoke, “I rented that new movie. The one with Peter Horton?”_

_“Children of the Corn?” says Billy._

_He nods. “Yeah, that one. We were thinking about watching it.”_

_Billy nods too, facing forward. He surveys the empty parking lot. The sky is a shade shy of night and all the street lights are on. “So you’re probably not coming tonight?” says Billy._

_“I’ll talk to Nance about it,” says Steve. He grinds his cigarette out beneath his shoe and reaches behind Billy to unlock the car._

* * *

_By midnight, the entire rumor mill knows about the party, so Billy arrives at the quarry to find a mix of sophomores, kids from the technical college a county over, and even a few straggling freshmen. He’s only on his own for a moment before Tommy parts the throng in a biblical fashion, folding Billy under his arm and steering him over to an empty camp chair in front of a fire. Carol hands Billy a solo cup._

_While he’s chugging it, she says, “Where’s Stevie?”_

_“You can probably guess,” he says, rubbing the back of his hand across his mouth._

_“I fucking told you!” crows Tommy, pointing an accusatory finger at Carol. “Harrington’s turning bitch, and I called it. Everyone remember that I fucking called it.”_

_She rolls her eyes. “Shut up, Tommy.”_

_“You know I’m right though!” he says._

_Billy phases them out, staring into the dying fire. He wonders if Steve is back home in Loch Nora, sliding his hand into Wheeler’s panties while they watch their movie._

_“He’ll show,” Billy hears himself say. Tommy and Carol stop talking. They look at him with twin, inscrutable expressions. It’s weird how they can look so alike. “C’mon, let’s get another drink,” says Billy, standing and tossing his empty cup onto the ground._

_A few rounds of jungle juice later, and he really starts to feel it. Gravity knocks him on his ass while he’s taking a leak. He just manages to catch himself on a tree trunk. Someone stoked the fire back to life, and its blaze filters through the dark trees, touching them with gold. Billy tries to focus on a bar of light while he rights himself. The walk back to the fire is halting, but somehow he gets his feet back under him._

_It takes a second for his eyes to adjust to the sudden flood of light when he breaks the tree line. When they do adjust, Steve is the first person he sees. Then Tommy and Carol talking to him. He isn’t even dressed to go out. He’s wearing a threadbare t-shirt and a pair of ratty jeans that Billy’s pretty sure Steve stole from him. It’s a mild consolation. One that disappears the moment he sees Nancy Wheeler next to him wearing one of Steve’s shirts. Billy only hesitates a second before interjecting himself into their close, little circle._

_Slinging his arm over Steve’s shoulders, Billy turns to Nancy, saying, “Wheeler, did Steve try that horror movie trick on you?”_

_“Horror movie trick?” says Nancy, laughing nervously._

_He grabs the cigarette Steve keeps behind his ear, finds the lighter in the front pocket of Steve’s jeans, and lights up. Around the filter, he says, “Oh yeah, it’s a Steve-o classic—hey, Carol, what’d he get last time? Nightmare Street or some shit?”_

_“Nightmare on Elm Street with Tammy Thompson,” says Carol gleefully._

_Steve’s shoulders grow rigid under Billy’s arm. “Okay, that’s not—we just watched a movie together,” he says, shrugging Billy off him. Without Steve to lean on, he stumbles a little._

_“His signature move is an arm around your shoulder during the scary parts,” says Billy, using his stumble to turn to Nancy. “Works like a charm.” Her little mouth pinches up at him._

_“Feeling charmed, Wheeler?” whispers Billy, leaning into her space._

_“Okay, alright. Enough about my ‘signature moves’,” he hears Steve say, but he’s not looking at him. He watches Nancy’s eyes harden._

_“Oh wait, there’s one more! If you blow him, he’ll buy you dinner,” says Carol, and she and Tommy erupt into laughter. Nancy’s mouth pinches up even more. That, more than anything, makes Billy laugh too._

_“Wow, my friends everyone! A bunch of fucking assholes,” snaps Steve. He’s pissed. Billy’s almost happy about it. He feels like pushing a few more of his buttons, but then Steve says,“C’mon Nance, you still hungry? Let’s get out of here.” He puts a hand on the small of Nancy’s back and guides her away._

_Billy watches Steve and Nancy walking arm in arm back to the gravel lot where all the cars are parked. He watches them until he sees the BMW’s headlights turn on. When he looks back at Tommy and Carol, they’re gone. Instead, he finds Jonathan Byers, sticking out like a sore thumb, and watching the BMW too._

* * *

**June, 1990**

At some hazy point in the night, Billy finds himself trapped inside the sticky space between sleep and wakefulness. Beside him, Steve’s body feels pavement warm. Sun-kissed. Billy runs hot, but Steve boils when they sleep together. Everything reaches its equilibrium around 3am, when Steve starts hogging all the blankets. He guesses that’s what woke him up. 

Behind him, the springs creak, mattress dipping as Steve rolls over and presses against Billy’s back. He isn’t wearing a shirt. Just his cotton briefs. Billy can feel his hardon against the small of his back. Still hazy with sleep, he reaches a hand back to cup him. It feels as natural as stretching before a run, hardly any thought piloting the movement. 

“Mm, can’t sleep?” he mumbles, slowly running his hand over Steve’s cock through his briefs. Steve releases a shuddering breath that wafts against the back of Billy’s neck. 

“Didn’t mean to wake you up,” whispers Steve. Billy lazily turns toward him. They’re cradled close by the dip in the bed. He puts his hand back between them. 

“It’s fine. Need some help?” says Billy. His thumb traces lightly over the head through the briefs. Billy feels sleepy and warm; he’s hard too but that doesn’t matter. It never really matters when they do stuff like this. 

“Uh, we. We really shouldn’t do that,” says Steve, but he isn’t stopping Billy. If he really wanted him to stop, he’d make him. Billy only gives him a slight squeeze. 

“How long you been up?” he says, gently pulling the waistband of his briefs down. Steve inhales sharply when Billy wraps him gently in his palm. The weight of Steve’s cock is familiar, and if the lights were on, Billy would get to see how pretty and flushed he looks. For now, he can imagine it just fine. 

When Steve doesn’t answer, he whispers, “Stevie, how long?” 

“I don’t, um—shit,” he hisses when Billy twists his hand at the head. “I don’t know. Couple of hours maybe.” 

“Mm,” he hums. “Lemme help you.” They’re pressed close, hardly anything between them but their clothes. Even in the dark he can see Steve’s pretty face and his big eyes. They grow hooded, shadows brushing his pupils. 

“Billy,” whispers Steve, his hand warm and sudden on top of Billy’s. “We really can’t.” 

“Okay,” he says. For a moment, neither of them move, both their hands curled around the heat of Steve’s cock. Then Billy smooths his thumb along the crown, cautious, questing. Steve’s head is so sensitive. A procession of little pants punch out of him at every brush. Eventually Steve’s hand falls away, sliding around the curve of Billy’s hip. He presses into Billy’s hand and ruts. Billy can feel the muscles of his back tightening up. He twists his hand over his swollen head again. 

“Ah—Jesus.” Steve clutches at his hip, fingers biting into him. Billy knows he’s going to come soon. He always knows when Steve is close. 

“You gonna come, baby?” he whispers against the shell of his ear. 

Steve’s eyes slam shut, and his cock surges in Billy’s hand. Warm come floods over his knuckles, smearing across his shirt. Billy keeps stroking him even though he knows Steve must be oversensitive. 

He only stops when Steve places a shaky hand on his. He’s breathing hard, each exhale expanding against Billy’s chest; his eyes are still closed. Billy wishes he’d open them. 

“Jesus Christ,” moans Steve, rolling over. He finally opens his eyes and directs them at the ceiling. Billy casually wipes his hand off on the comforter. He wants Steve to touch him again, but doesn’t know how to ask for that. 

“You good?” says Billy, after the silence lingers too long. 

Steve turns his head only a little. “That,” he starts. “We can’t do that anymore.” 

Billy nearly rolls his eyes. He’s heard this speech before. He keeps hearing it because neither of them listens to it. Steve waits for Billy to look at him. When he does, Steve says, “I’m serious.” 

“Okay, sure.” 

“Billy,” says Steve. 

He examines the wet smear on the comforter, thinking about rubbing Callum’s come into almost the exact same spot. The point of focus steadies his brain. He doesn’t want to fight with Steve, but it feels like they might. Swallowing the bitter taste in his mouth, he says, “I heard you the first time, Harrington.” 

From the corner of his eye, he watches Steve sit up and grapple around for a shirt. When he stands, the entire mattress lifts. Billy rolls over to see him rummaging through his dresser for jeans now. “Where are you going?” says Billy, hating that Steve’s even putting him in a position to ask. 

“I need to talk to Nancy,” he says. 

Billy looks at his watch. “It’s four in the morning.” 

He fiddles around on the desk, knocking things off it, until he finds what he’s looking for. Holding up the lanyard, Steve says, “Got a key.” 

“Just wait until morning, man.” 

“It _is_ morning—god, where the fuck are my shoes?” Steve lifts up discarded shirts and pants, a little hysterically. Billy watches him, feeling far away from himself again. All the warmth they’d hoarded between them in the night is gone. The sheets feel cold and clammy against his skin. 

“In the kitchen, under the table,” says Billy. 

Finally, Steve stops his frantic search and seizure of the room. His lips press into a thin line. Billy forces himself not to ask Steve to stay. They’ve had that conversation before too. 

“Thanks,” says Steve, pocketing the keys. The front door makes a solemn chime behind him when he leaves. 


	3. running your mouth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy has a no good, very bad week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is made so much better by my lovely, lovely beta xJuniperx. Thank you babe for your endless support!

**June, 1990**

Steve doesn’t come home the next day. Or the next. On Wednesday, he calls the house when he knows Billy is at work to leave a message saying, “I’m staying with Nancy for a bit.” 

Billy listens to the message three times before deleting it. By now, it’s midday and he can’t say with any degree of accuracy what he’s done since rolling out of bed around ten. The columns of sunlight streaming through their kitchen have that golden, late-day quality to them. They stretch all the way to Steve’s shirts still hanging on the laundry room door.

Billy fingers a collar. He thinks about wearing one again, but he’ll just get oil all over it working on the car. Some part of him thinks that might be alright. Eventually, Billy takes the shirts into Steve’s room, laying them over the crumpled sheets for him to find later. 

He’s about to leave when his attention snags on a folded note fluttering beneath the air duct on Steve’s desk. He slides it over to himself with one finger. Smoothed out, he realizes he’s looking at Steve’s apology note from the other day. Feels silly thinking about it now, put into perspective. Steve hasn’t been home in three days. His absence has been complete. No note. No messages. 

Billy traces Steve’s chicken scratch with the tip of his finger. 

_I’m sorry. Please don’t be mad. Let me talk to you at least._

_\- S_

His finger lingers over the S, oil smudging the graphite. He licks the smudge away and pockets the note, nice and safe, in his jeans.

* * *

The sun goes down early the next day, too. Feels earlier when he’s under a car for hours. By the time he and Neil take a break around six, the sky is already flushed pink. Winter’s notes blowing through Hawkins in the middle of June. Nothing new. 

Billy makes an honest attempt to scrub away the oil on his hands before eating his sandwich, but the water only slides the oil around, tingeing his hands grey. He and Neil eat over the sink, washing down white bread and bologna with cold Schlitz. 

“You have to head out soon?” says Neil, crumpling up his can and immediately cracking open another. 

Billy looks at his plate full of bread crusts. Usually he doesn’t bother cutting them, but Neil hasn’t been shopping in a while. The bread is stale. “I could stick around.” 

“Flannigan’s?” Neil scratches at his thinning hair. His heavy class ring glints under the waning light, caught in the movement. Billy’s attention zeroes into the garnet resting like a drop of blood at its center. 

“Sure,” says Billy.

* * *

**March, 1978**

_Pounding knocks shake the bathroom door. He jumps, heart already in his throat and inching higher. Then he hears Steve’s voice, cracking slightly. “Billy? You okay?”_

_Blood drips from his nose into the sink, mixing with the water drops. They look almost pretty together. His face is another story. The busted nose isn’t exactly Dad’s fault—that’s from losing his balance and falling into the book shelf. Dad’s work is harder to see. Just a cut on his cheek from his ring catching Billy in the face before his knuckles. He’d been mouthing off. He’s always mouthing off._

_Steve says his name again, so Billy unlocks the door, pulling it halfway open. Steve stares at him from the doorway. Not exactly the same way he’d stared at Billy when he first showed up on his front step, but maybe some way worse. Pity. Billy hates it._

_“It’s just a nosebleed,” he snaps._

_Steve steps carefully into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. The room becomes very quiet while Steve chews on his lip and stares at him. He’s so tall already. They used to be the same height even a year ago, but something happened to Steve Harrington over the summer. Something he can’t stop thinking about._

_Wordlessly, Steve takes the washcloth from Billy’s hand. “You should sit down.”_

_“It’s okay. I’m fine.”_

_“I know,” says Steve. “But I still want you to sit down.” He gives Billy a pointed look, like sit down, shut up, or else. Black spots appear in front of his eyes the moment he steps away from the sink. He hit his head kind of hard, he supposes. With a long sigh, Billy slumps onto the toilet._

_Steve turns on the faucet and gets the washcloth nice and wet. When he dabs at Billy’s face with it, he’s gentle. Still, it hurts. Billy holds his breath. Steve is so close to him. He can pick out the individual shades of brown in Steve’s eyes. He can see every mole and freckle on his neck and cheeks, too. Without thinking, he brings his hand up, thumb covering the two freckles on the side of Steve’s neck. The washcloth pauses._

_Billy rubs at them gently._

_“What happened?” says Steve. He can feel every word vibrate under his finger. Billy presses his thumb against him a little harder._

_Billy’s never told Steve about his dad. In all fairness, Dad hasn’t given him much to tell Steve about. He doesn’t usually hit where people can see. Today, though. He must have really pushed Dad’s buttons today._

_He thinks about just saying it. My dad. He’s angry all the time. “It was my fault,” says Billy instead. “Was running my mouth.” He lets his hand drop back into his lap._

_Steve’s tongue swipes quickly along his bottom lip. That urge to touch him again flares to life, and he just barely stops himself._

_“You wanna stay over?” says Steve. The way he says it, Billy thinks maybe he wanted to say something different._

_“Can’t,” says Billy. He has to be home for dinner. Steve knows that._

_“Okay, well, let me know if you ever—ever want to,” says Steve. He resumes gently wiping at Billy’s face until all the blood is gone._

* * *

**June, 1990**

Their little ranch-style home sits at the end of a cul-de-sac out in Gainesville. Technically, that’s outside of Hawkins. But every year, the suburban sprawl of kids from the local community college grows, edging the boundaries of both towns closer and closer. 

Billy didn’t even want the house. That was all Steve. Steve, who saved for the deposit, and dragged Billy to the tour, and put the first month’s rent down. Making sure he doesn’t have to ever set foot on Cherry street again. Four years later and they’re still here, domesticated to a degree only rivaled by the wives of Hawkins and real, proper faggots. 

He guesses, technically, he can claim the latter title. 

In all four years living here, Billy’s never felt the true size of their house, but with Steve gone, the walls swell, echoing his thoughts back to him until they multiply in volume. Five days since Steve left, and the entire kitchen table looks like a fucking ashtray with his littered butts all over it. 

Neil gave him some screws the other day, so he sets to work on the wobbly cupboard. It doesn’t take too long to fix. He rides that momentum for a couple more hours, putting his energy to good use cleaning up the kitchen, sharpening his knife, hanging up the shirts he left in Steve’s room. The hours drip into each other, shuffling him through the day, until they spit him out into another evening spent alone in this god forsaken house. 

Surveying his work, Billy thinks he should probably take a shower. Maybe pour himself a glass of whiskey and go to bed early. He grabs the Camaro’s keys instead.

* * *

The parking lot in front of Mary’s seems dead, but he spots a few cars dotted along the fringes and decides to try his luck anyways. At the very least, he’ll try his luck getting drunk, which is more a matter of dedication than luck. 

Wilma starts pouring him a shooter before he’s even said a word to her. She slides it expertly across the counter and into his outstretched hand, saying, “Damn, kid. Try coming in here lookin’ happy for once.” 

He takes the shot back in one quick swallow, and the glass plinks neatly on the counter when he sets it back down. She immediately fills him up another shot. When he’s done with that, he says, “Harrington’s playing house with Nancy Wheeler.” 

“Already?” she says. 

Billy shrugs, but his attention is already elsewhere. Sunday night at a queer bar in Indiana. Not exactly prized pickings. His eyes bump over an unimaginative crowd of faces, and he thinks maybe he made a mistake, maybe he should just go home— 

His eyes catch on a guy in his mid-thirties, looking Billy over like a prize-winning bitch. Could be he’s a lot older than he looks. Indiana faggots have a tough go of it—more than most—but he never finds out. They don’t do much talking. 

The guy hitches his chin in the direction of the bathrooms and Billy waits only a second before following after him. The bathroom is a single, red interior, black door covered in silver graffiti marker. Billy locks the door behind himself and immediately sinks to his knees, guided by the man’s hand at his nape. 

“That’s it sweetheart,” he says. “Been looking at those pretty lips since you walked in.” 

Billy flashes him a grin before swallowing down his cock. He’s good at this. A natural born cocksucker, just like his old man thought. It doesn’t take very long to get him tensing up. Billy pulls off at the last moment, and streaks of come land between them. 

Billy waits for him to catch his breath before slowly standing. He fingers the buckle of his own belt. Normally he wouldn’t bother, but he’s real keyed up tonight. He’s been keyed up for a good, long while. Billy tugs his zip down, pressing his cock against the man’s hip—

He finds himself slammed against the sink, porcelain digging into his back. It’s not often someone throws him off his feet. Not anymore. The window of action lasts only a couple of seconds, enough to hear him spit, “I’m no fuckin’ faggot,” while Billy’s still catching his balance. 

And _well_. He wasn’t exactly looking to blow off steam this way, but he won’t look a gift horse in the mouth. Laughter streaming out of him, Billy uses the sink to propel his right hook into the man’s jaw. The blow vibrates all the way up his arm. 

A groan and a crunch. Both fill his ears in one explosive crack. The force of his hit throws the man back against the wall, and Billy follows him, fisting the collar of his shirt, slamming his head into concrete. The sound he makes is dull and wet. 

“Funny you made it all these years without learning some manners,” pants Billy.

The guy struggles to focus on Billy, and losing patience, Billy grabs his jaw, forcing him to pay attention. Always worked on him. “But I think you can learn. Right?” He gives his cheek a little smack. “An old dog and his new trick? Yeah, you can learn. Now you’re gonna say thank you,” whispers Billy. They’re nose to nose, and it feels more intimate than having his cock in his throat. All that hot blood steaming the air between them. “That’s what we say when people do us a favor.”

Billy jostles him a little because his eyes are fluttering. “Go on. Say it. _Thank_ me.” 

A little burble of sound ekes out of him. He bares a set of bloody teeth and slurs, “ _Fuck_ you.” 

Billy’s smile grows. Muscle memory autopilots his body, and he blinks back to the moment as his knuckles meet their mark. Another crack, another groan. This is the blow that snaps the man’s tether to consciousness. His body makes a dull _thwump_ on the ground when Billy releases him. Someone’s jostling the doorknob outside and it breaks the spell. Or maybe it’s more like a possession. 

“Thanks,” says Billy, feeling something like peace. He unlocks the door and slips away.

* * *

Sometime on the drive home, the booze finally catches up to him. He fights gravity all the way up the front walk and into the house. The light of the answering machine immediately catches his attention. He takes a couple more stumbling steps until he’s close enough to hit play. Then Steve’s voice fills the room. For one drunk moment, he forgets he isn’t here. And then he remembers. Billy rips through the liquor cabinet while the message plays. 

_Hey. It’s me. I guess you’re out or something. I just wanted to check in. See how you’re doing. I bet you’ve been smoking inside._

Steve laughs and Billy decides to add a couple more fingers of whiskey to his cup. 

_Anyways, I just. Yeah. I’m checking in. So. Call me back when you get in I guess. I don’t care how late it is._

The message beeps. He stares at the red light until it blurs. Until he feels wetness on his face. Billy scrubs a hand hastily over his eyes. He takes a long, burning gulp of whiskey. It scours his throat clean of the taste of another man’s cock. He knows the moment he stops drinking, the ache from earlier tonight will catch up to him. So he doesn’t stop drinking. 

Only when he’s thoroughly hammered does Billy dare himself to pick up the phone. Then he dares himself to punch in Nancy Wheeler’s number. And he dares himself not to hang up while the phone rings and rings. After the final ring, Nancy Wheeler’s answering machine greets him. 

_Hey it’s Nancy! I’m not here right now, but leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you._

He waits for the machine to beep before he hangs up. Billy drains his cup in one gulp. Then he plays Steve’s message over again.

* * *

Neil’s outside dumping grass clippings into a couple paper bags when Billy rumbles up to the house the next morning. He’s simultaneously still drunk and hungover at the same time. More hungover than drunk.

Billy stumbles out of the Camaro and up the front steps. He’s all too aware of Neil scrutinizing him with his shrewd eyes. “Some night, huh?” says Neil, his frown moving only when he speaks. 

“Something like that.” Billy shoulders by him and into the house. He makes a beeline for the kitchen. The coffee pot is still warm. Of course, without a woman around to mind him, Neil doesn’t keep many dishes in the cupboards. He pulls a random cabinet open and pauses at the tidy line of empty Evan Williams bottles he finds. _So he’s back on the hardstuff._

The sound of the front door opening makes him jump, and he quickly slams the cabinet shut. Neil appears in the kitchen a moment later, perfectly brushed hair barely disturbed by a morning of work. He shoulders Billy aside so he can open the cabinet next to him. This one is full of cups. Neil pulls down a mug and fixes himself a cup of black coffee without offering one to Billy. 

While Billy fixes his, Neil watches him over the rim of his cup. “Was a time we’d have words if you showed up to my house looking like this,” he says. 

“There was a time,” says Billy softly. He takes a contemplative sip of his coffee. “We should check the alternator today.” 

“Oh do you think so?” says Neil. 

Billy drops his stare to his knuckles gripped around the mug’s handle. They’re raw, crusted over with blood. He can feel Neil’s shrewd eyes casting over them, too. He’s been gone so long. Almost long enough to forget the feeling of having Neil look at him like that. 

“Why don’t you take a shower, son,” says Neil casually. “We can talk about the car after.” 

Billy’s eyes flicker back to him. Neil’s not asking him. “Gotta be at work around noon,” he says. 

“Then be quick,” says Neil, eyes narrowing further. “I’ll be outside when you’re ready.” He claps Billy on the shoulder hard enough for him to feel it in his jaw. He tries not to flinch, but he thinks maybe he does anyways because Neil’s mustache twitches at him in amusement.

* * *

**December, 1984**

_The first time he meets Chief Jim Hopper, he’s lying on the floor of Flannigan’s, nearing the horizon of unconsciousness. Hopper snaps his fingers, says, “Water,” to the barback, and coaxes Billy back to the living world with a couple taps on the cheek. Each one stings. When he can walk, Hopper shuttles him into a tan Chevy Blazer. Billy watches the number eleven double, then triple, on the dash clock. Eleven O’clock. Skirting the edge of Neil’s weekday curfew._

_Hopper drives them to the station, but he doesn’t even put Billy into cuffs. He opens up the building, turns on the emergency lights, and leads him to an office at the back, one with his name on it._

_Sitting in his desk chair with a sigh, he says, “Cigarette?” Then he lights them both one before Billy can say anything. The Chief smokes Camels. It’ll have to do. Every time Billy inhales, the purse of his lips leaves behind bloody residue on the filter, like he’s wearing lipstick. He wonders how banged up he is._

_Hopper watches him with the eyes of a hawk despite how red and tired they seem. Gesturing with his cigarette, he says, “Why don’t you sit down. Guy clocked you pretty hard.”_

_“Been hit harder,” he says._

_The Chief is unmoved. “Sit,” he says. So Billy sits, because he also knows a man sounding like that means business. Hopper pushes the phone across the table to him. “Call one of your people. I don’t care who. Anyone who can get you out of my hair.”_

_Billy picks up the phone, the dial tone ringing in his ear. He tongues at the split of his lip, tasting copper. “You’re not booking me?”_

_Inexplicably, the Chief says, “I’ve got thirty minutes ‘til the Miami Vice rerun comes on. Can’t be late,” like that answers his question. Billy looks at the numbers, each one vibrating, and clocks in the only number he’d know even if he was unconscious._

_On ring four, he picks up. “Harrington residence,” says Steve._

_Billy swallows around a dry mouth. They’ve barely spoken all week. Hell, all month it seems. Not really since the party. “Hey. It’s me,” he says finally._

_Steve falls quiet. Billy stretches his hearing, trying to pick up any background noise. Nancy Wheeler asking Steve what’s the matter, maybe. Why the long face? It’s a Friday, so they’re probably together—Fridays are movie nights. But Billy only hears the mild static of silence._

_“Are you alright?” says Steve._

_The taste of bloody spit fills his mouth. He resists the urge to hawk it onto the Chief’s floor. “I’m at the station. Need a ride. If you’re busy, I can call someone else—”_

_“No! Jesus, don’t do that. I’m coming. I’ll—be there in like fifteen minutes.” Relief surges through him. He used to know Steve would bail him out of anything, no questions asked. He used to know that. But now, talking to him, Billy realizes a part of him expected Steve to say no tonight._

_“Okay,” whispers Billy. “I’m—I need a place to crash, too.” He can’t head home. Not looking like this. Like he lost the fight._

_Steve is quiet again before he says, “I’ll let Nancy know.”_

_Billy hangs up and finds Hopper inspecting him. “Fifteen minutes,” says the Chief. “I can work with that.”_

* * *

**June, 1990**

By the time he gets home from work, it’s four in the afternoon. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he finds himself yanked back to consciousness inside a dark room. Steve’s room. He’s been sleeping in here. 

Billy tongues at his cheek, mouth tasting metallic and stale. Slowly, he sits up. He draws Steve’s comforter close around his shoulders. It still smells like him. 

His entire body protests when he stands, but he patiently waits out the floating black spots before ambling into the kitchen with the comforter still wrapped around him. He’s naked except for a pair of Steve’s boxers. The phone is a constant shadow at the corner of his eye while he moves around.

Finally, after scarfing down a sandwich, drinking three cups of water, and smoking half a cigarette, he plucks it from the cradle. He listens to the dial tone for only a moment before pressing redial. 

The phone rings four times. Then he hears: “Hello, Nancy speaking.” 

He shouldn’t be so fucking surprised to hear her voice after calling her goddamn house, but he’s startled into slamming the phone back into its receiver. Fuck. _Fuck—_

The phone starts ringing. It rings and rings and rings. Just before it hits voicemail, Billy yanks it off the cradle and waits. Someone inhales. Then Steve says, “Billy? Hey. Hey, it’s me.” 

Billy flags against the counter, pressing the phone a little tighter to his ear. “Got your message,” he says, voice coming out rough. 

“Right. My message,” says Steve. “Good. Yeah, I just wanted to—to check in.” 

Phone balanced between his shoulder and ear, Billy faces the window over the kitchen sink. It looks onto their lazy little street and the empty place next to the trash can where Steve normally parks the BMW. 

“Saw the old man again today,” he says, and Steve inhales another sharp breath. “We’ve been working on the car. Told you she was running rough, right?” 

A few beats of silence pass before Steve says, “Yeah. You told me. So that’s—that’s alright? Things are going okay?” 

A rush of unexpected emotion clogs up his throat. He works to speak around it. “Yeah. Look. You comin’ back anytime soon or should I start putting ads up?” 

Steve makes a scoffing sound. “Jesus. You’re acting like I moved out already,” he says. 

Billy spins away from the window, starting up a slow pace of the kitchen. “Yeah, well did you? Didn’t really talk to _me_ about it.” 

“So now I gotta tell you everything I do?” 

He stops on the threshold to the hallway, the line protesting even one more step forward. “Look. I just want a heads up if I need to cover your part of the rent. That’s all.” 

“Wow,” breathes Steve, drawing the word out. “You’re unbelievable. It’s been like a couple days!” 

“It’s been a goddamn _week_!” he says immediately, and quiet static descends on Steve’s side of the line. Like maybe he just hung up. Billy pinches the bridge of his nose. 

The static fades into a soft sigh. “Yeah. Okay. So it’s been a week,” says Steve quietly. 

Billy tries to remember the last time they spent this much time apart. He thinks maybe it happened four years ago, before they moved in with each other. When he was livin’ back home and Steve wasn’t marrying Nancy Wheeler. 

He clears his throat a couple times. “Okay, well. If that’s all, I got shit to do.” 

“Yeah. Sure,” says Steve. 

“Sure.” Billy waits a second and when Steve doesn’t say anything else, he hangs up.

* * *

The destination is Cherry street. He heads that way on autopilot, and pulls onto the street with the same mindless determination, only to find an empty driveway. Billy barely even breaks before he turns around and heads towards Flannigan’s. Ten minutes later, Neil’s old Ford rears its head over the hill. There he is. Out drinking at nine-thirty on a Monday evening.

About a dozen patrons sit around the U-shaped bar in the center of the room. Neil sits at the helm. He throws his head back in laughter, claps the man next to him on the back, and scoots his stool back. Billy catches the garnet on his ring winking when his hand shoots out to steady himself. 

Neil fights gravity all the way to the restroom, hand catching along the wall for balance. Billy almost feels amused. Mostly, he feels anticipation. Like a heavy cloud rolling through a clear sky. 

He takes up Neil’s empty spot and tells the tender to get him one of whatever Neil ordered last. When he scoots a double whiskey across the table, he tells Billy, “That’s his last drink.” 

Billy flashes his teeth. “Sure thing,” he says, taking a sip. He nearly drops the glass when Neil’s big hand clamps down on his shoulder. 

“Billy boy,” he says, hand squeezing him. Billy raises his drink in salute. He can smell the burn of booze on Neil’s breath even from here. To the man beside him, the one who made him laugh, Neil says, “S’ my son.” 

Billy and the man shake hands while Neil grapples with another stool, struggling to get it between them. His glassy eyes waver over to Billy’s drink. Chuffing a laugh, Neil says, “A little never hurt.” 

Privately, Billy agrees. He knocks the drink back. “Your pal here says you’re done, pops. Let me give you a ride home.” Billy watches Neil’s pupils narrow to pinpricks, and for a flashing moment, he almost seems sober. Billy claps him on the shoulder, once, hard. “C’mon. Let’s go.” 

Neil struggles to take his keys out of his pocket. “Got the truck.” 

When Billy smiles, he smiles with all his teeth. “See, I don’t think I can let you do that.” 

He feels like a magnetic pole circling Neil, pushing away with one side and attracting him with the other. Must be their blood, he thinks. That’s how it’s always been. Still smiling, Billy plucks his keys away, the same way Neil’s taken his countless times. He pockets them and leaves Neil to close out his tab. 

Outside, Neil hesitates in front of the passenger door only a moment before getting in. The leather chair creaks under his weight. Billy turns the key, pulling smoothly back onto the road. Having Neil in his peripheral while he drives reminds him of those few times he tried to teach Billy to drive stick with the Ford. 

He wonders if this will end the same way. A part of him is hoping it does. Maybe he’s been hoping it for some time—since Steve stepped out. 

Coming up on a gas station, Neil plants a finger on his glass. “Pull over, ‘m out of smokes,” he says. Billy doesn’t slow down. He shakes out one of his, extending the cigarette over the console. Neil’s eyes glance over it, then away. 

“Pull over, Billy,” he says, voice receding into that familiar dangerous calm, no effects of whiskey evident. 

Forcing himself to keep his tone friendly, Billy says, “Let’s just get you home, pops.” Silence greets him. This silence has movement, as most of Neil’s silences do. Behind the veil, he circles like carrion. 

When Neil’s hand flashes out, Billy isn’t quick enough to stop him. He gets ahold of the wheel, giving it a sharp turn. The car veers onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel kicks up into the wheel-well, sounding like clanking bullet shells against the metal. Billy wrestles the wheel back before they can run off the road. Seems like the entire car balances on one tire for a moment. 

“You’re feeling real smart tonight, aren’t you boy?” demands Neil. 

Billy’s heart hammers in his ears. He feels like he’s just woken up for the first time all fucking week. “There he is! There’s the man I know,” he whoops. “Thought you were sleeping on me, pops. What was it—Mets lose?”

The gas station whirs by them. Billy steps on the gas, putting it miles behind his rearview mirror. They’re on a two-lane road. He can see what’s up ahead only by the grace of his headlights. Columns of Hawkins forest blur by them, pinning the road between its massive reach.

“I’m warning you,” says Neil, smoothing his fingers down his mustache. “Now isn’t the time to run your mouth.” 

The grin on Billy’s face starts to ache. He looks over at Neil, and leaning in slightly like he’s about to share a secret, he says softly, “Or maybe...maybe you finally figured out Susan’s been fucking around on you this entire time.” 

There’s no silence to precede Neil’s backhand. It whips him across the face, and the car swerves again. He’s too lost in the static of disorientation to straighten them out. The Camaro bumps over the shoulder and clean off the road, crashing into a shallow ditch. He at least has the mind to slam on the breaks. Chunks of grass fly up behind them, and the entire car fishtails, just nearly missing a tree trunk. 

When they finally come to a stop, Billy realizes the noise in his head is the sound of both their ragged breathing. Neil sneers, “You never learn do you, boy?” 

“Oh, I learned from the best,” he says. And this time Billy’s ready for him. Neil’s moving slower now, the booze not doing him any favors. Or maybe it’s something more mundane—old age, finally carving away his strength. Billy doesn’t remember ever having the upper hand like he does now. 

He dodges another backhand and swings, clipping Neil on the cheek. A meaty crack fills the cabin. His entire head rocks back from the power of his fist. After, when he’s still again, that silence creeps up between them. This time Billy can’t see him moving behind the veil, not beyond the flat black of his pupils. 

Neil’s lip curls back like an animal’s. “Think you’re a tough guy, Billy? Huh?”

Billy notices a cut at the corner of Neil’s mouth. From him, he realizes. Blood, garnet red, wells up and catches in the cracks of his lips. Eyes wavering over Billy’s face, Neil huffs out a sound of amusement. “Go on then. Act the tough man. Finish what you started.” 

When Billy doesn’t move, Neil slaps at his cheek, right where Billy hit him. “Right there, son.” 

He sees the shape of Neil’s bruise floating across his vision like an afterimage. “Get out of my car,” says Billy softly. 

Neil laughs a single, hard note. “You got a plan if I don’t?” 

Billy looks at the raw skin of his knuckles. At Neil. 

“Get the _fuck_ out of my car,” he says. 

Neil’s eyes glitter, flashing like a predator in the night. “Make me, boy.” 

The phantom sensation of Neil’s cheek, hard and warm under his fist is still working through him. It feels too familiar. Timelines from the past and present merging. One minute he feels paralyzed. The next, he finds himself shoving his door open and rounding the car. Neil’s crackling laughter follows him, growing louder when he slams the passenger door open. 

“Well, look at you. Maybe you did learn,” says Neil, grinning up at him. 

Billy gets his hands in the front of his shirt. “I think you can get yourself home,” he says and hauls Neil out of the car. The movement tests his balance. At the last second, on the precipice of falling, he shoves him away. Neil crashes backward, body making a sick thudding noise in the grass.

Billy wills himself to get in the car, to just drive away, but he waits for Neil to right himself. Maybe to see if he can. His old man creaks up onto his knees, then to his feet. His breathing is ragged. 

“We’re not so different, you and me Billy,” pants Neil. 

Billy imagines punching the words out of his mouth. Replacing them with hot blood. He throws Neil’s keys into the grass. “Drive safe, pops.” 

He climbs back into the Camaro, gunning it down the road. Neil disappears in his rearview mirror too. 

Around ten-mile markers later, Billy has to pull back over. He’s shaking. Can barely even hold the wheel. And something’s happening to his lungs—he can’t get enough air into them or something. 

Billy pulls deep, ragged breaths into his chest until he feels like he can hold the steering wheel again. And even then, he sits there, blinking out into the Hawkins night, thousands of miles away from himself. Cut up knuckles curled around the wheel. 

When he returns to his body, he feels cold. Cold and covered in a sheen of sweat. He cranks all the windows down and pats frantically around for a cigarette. The one he’d offered Neil is still wedged between his seat and the cupholder. He fishes it out, lights up, and inhales lungful after lungful of burning smoke into his throat. It doesn’t completely soothe away the shaking, but it dries up the wetness along his lashes. 

Eventually, Billy eases back onto the dark strip of road and continues heading north. Toward the University. 

He slips _Back in Black_ into the deck, cranking the volume to a nearly painful level. Everything in his head melts into the sound of the Camaro’s snarling engine, the music pounding through the air. That’s how he makes his entrance onto Nancy Wheeler’s sleepy little street in the middle of the night. 

The car squeals to a stop in front of house 405, with its aluminum awning and all-brick porch. The flickering outdoor lights attract a cloud of moths. Billy searches for her car. Steve’s. They’re both parked in the small drive, side-by-side. How domestic. 

Billy almost feels drunk slinking up to the front door. Disoriented. When he knocks, the entire frame shakes, and when no one immediately answers, he knocks again. Fuck, his head is spinning. He drops it below his shoulders. When the door finally slams open, he can only see Nancy Wheeler’s small socked feet standing on the threshold. Slowly, he raises his head.

She looms in the doorway like a sentinel, jaw jutting out, eyes bright and hard like glass. 

“Well hello Miss Nancy,” he says, affecting a lazy drawl. “I believe you have something of mine.” When he tries to step past her, she shoots a hand out to stop him. 

“Billy. It’s late,” she bites out. 

He tries to see around her, eyes always on the horizon for Steve. Steve Steve Steve. He feels about ready to jump out of his skin, and if Nancy doesn’t move out of his way, right fucking now— 

He forcibly makes himself relax, Neil’s parting message fresh in his head. “Oh, I won’t be long,” says Billy. “Just thought I’d pay Stevie a little visit. We have some unfinished business to discuss.” 

Her nostrils flare, little mouth pinching up the way Billy likes. “Now’s not a good time. Look, you should just—” 

“Billy?” Steve appears behind Nancy’s shoulder. He’s wearing a ratty T-shirt—one of Billy’s—and a pair of boxers. His hair is all rumpled like he’d been sleeping up until this very moment. It’s so stupid. It’s so goddamn stupid how even just seeing him steadies the tremor in Billy’s fingers. He wills Steve to understand what he needs. 

Maybe they have their own look, after all. Steve puts a hand on Nancy’s shoulder, easing her out of the doorway. “Just give us a sec, okay?” says Steve when her eyebrows shoot up. “I’ll be right back.” 

“Steve,” she says. “You know what he’s doing.” 

“Nancy.” 

“Are we _really_ doing this again?” 

But Billy hears a note of capitulation in her voice, and maybe Steve does too. “Just go back to bed. Seriously, it’s okay,” says Steve. She wavers, eyes darting balefully to Billy, before reluctantly stepping aside. 

Steve closes the door behind him. Shutting Nancy away. Shutting everything away. And now it’s just them here together. His big eyes track over Billy’s face, and he knows when Steve sees Neil’s bruise—his pupils dilate. 

“What happened?” says Steve, taking a step forward. Another. 

Billy swallows a couple more times. “Always running my mouth, aren’t I?” he whispers. 

A pained look flickers over Steve’s face. He takes his final step, hand reaching up to brush Billy’s cheek. The spot is tender when he rubs his thumb over it. “Was it—him?” says Steve. 

The sound of his fist cracking Neil in the face echoes through his mind. Shit. Billy steps away from Steve, shaking his hands out to dislodge the phantom feeling. “Fuck, can we—can we take a walk or something?” He knows Nancy Wheeler probably isn’t standing behind her door, waiting with bated breath to hear him talk about his old man. He knows that. But. 

Steve looks back over his shoulder at the inviting window, buttery warm, covered with lace curtains. Then he takes Billy’s hand with exaggerated slowness, maybe so Billy knows he’s about to do it. The moment he touches Billy, calm falls over him for the first time all night. Steve gives him a little tug when he doesn’t immediately move. 

He steers Billy down the front steps, across the walkway, and to the dark, quiet street. Together, they walk side-by-side along the shoulder, unruly grass whispering over their ankles. The yawning Hawkins forest stretches beside them. Something about it quiets the noise in Billy’s head. 

“Will you tell me what happened?” says Steve. He still has a hold on his hand, gently squeezing Billy. 

“You can probably put the pieces together,” he says. 

Steve lets that sit in the air for a moment. “So you’re—fuck, you’re really seeing him, aren’t you?” 

“Not anymore,” says Billy. Steve stops walking, a fleeting look of disappointment, there and gone, twisting his mouth up. “I’m sorry,” says Billy. He thinks he means it to be all encompassing, but right now, he just wants to find the right combination of words that will make Steve stop looking at him like that. 

Steve shakes his head. “That’s not—I just want to know if you’re okay.” 

He nearly laughs. Moisture wells along his waterline again, distorting Steve’s face. Billy waits for it to pass before he speaks. “When are you coming home?” he says, and that’s not what he thought he was going to say. 

Steve’s face twists up again. “Soon. We’re just working some stuff out. Me and Nancy.” 

“You said we had until September.” 

“We _do_.” 

_We don’t._ The thought pounds inside his head. They have so little time left. “Come home, Stevie,” says Billy. His voice comes out needy, pleading. Some part of him is disgusted with himself, and the other part is scrambling for a life raft. Any one he can find. 

“I—” Steve’s mouth opens. His eyes flit over Billy’s face, pupil to pupil. “It won’t be much longer. I promise.” 

“I need you,” he whispers. “Need you to keep my head on straight. Tell me when I’m walking into oncoming traffic.” 

Steve snorts. “You wouldn’t listen to me anyways.” 

Billy shakes his head. Here the truth comes, rearing its ugly head. “You’re the only person who would walk in after me.” 

Steve’s other hand slides up Billy’s arm, steadying him. “I’m—I’ll be home. I’m coming home.” 

“When?” demands Billy again. He steps closer until he can see every shade of brown in Steve’s big eyes. The hand on his arm flexes. Billy leans in, resting his forehead against Steve’s. He can smell his hair. His skin. A shudder runs through him. “I’m afraid of what I’ll do without you,” he whispers. Steve’s fingers clench, biting into his arm. 

“I’m coming home,” whispers Steve again. It sounds more like reassurance for himself. His hand falls slowly from Billy’s arm to his waist, and when Billy pushes his face into the crook of his neck, Steve only pulls him closer. 

“Tonight,” says Billy against his warm skin. “Let’s go tonight.”

He’s not talking about going home. 

Steve stills under him. Maybe he knows that too. “Nancy, she—” 

“ _Please,_ ” he begs. His cheek suddenly throbs where Neil got him. “Tonight. It has to be tonight.” 

Steve’s thoughts are loud between them. He can’t see his expression, so Billy just has to hope—

“Tonight?” says Steve, stretching the word out.

When Billy nods, Steve pushes at his hip, gentle, until Billy lifts his head. “Okay,” he says finally. 

_Okay,_ thinks Billy. 


	4. we can't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The road trip begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOU GUYS. I AM SO SORRY FOR THE DELAY. I hate taking hiatuses from work, but I graduated, and then I found a job, and then I cut my hair. It was all a lot. I like could fucking DIE from all the support this fic has gotten and I really hope everyone likes this chapter <3\. As always, thank you so much to my beta xJuniperx. Literally I would die without you.

**December 1986**

_ Tommy invites Billy over on a Wednesday afternoon to smoke some dope. It’s pretty weak dope, but that’s about usual: Tommy offering to smoke him up and delivering midwest bud that takes an hour to give Billy a buzz. To compensate, he smokes a lot.  _

_ At some point, Tommy leaves him down in the den by himself. Billy doesn’t know how much time passes until he gets back. He can barely keep himself present from blink to blink. Slowly, he lifts his wrist, and the numbers on his watch vibrate. 8:15 PM.  _

_ He’s still squinting at his reflection in the screen when Tommy comes back downstairs. Billy rolls his eyes over to him, noting that Tommy’s hair is all fucked up and his cheeks are flushed. Then Billy’s eyes roll down, clocking the six-pack in his hands. It’s not fancy imported beer, but it isn’t Schlitz either. It’ll do.  _

_ Tommy crashes down beside him on the couch, handing him a bottle. Billy pops the cap with his teeth. “Carol,” explains Tommy, cracking his own bottle open. “She just wanted to drop something off.”  _

_ Billy narrows his eyes at Tommy’s fucked up shirt. The buttons are off by one. “Sure,” he says. “She didn’t want to hang?”  _

_ The beer bottle pauses at Tommy’s lips. “Uh, no, she’s actually—Harrington is having this thing. Well, Nancy is. I don’t know. Carol says she needs girlfriends or whatever.” He takes a sip, waving the bottle while he swallows. “It’s really nothing.”  _

_ Some effects of the dope recede at the mention of Steve’s name. He compensates by downing half his beer in just a few gulps. “Thought Carol hated the princess?”  _

_ Tommy shrugs. He looks almost—guilty. And that’s when Billy realizes Tommy was invited too, but he chose Billy. Smoking dope with Billy Hargrove. Quickly, he kills the other half of his beer. “What’s the occasion then?” he says, a little sharp. Nancy Wheeler is the kind of girl who finds random parties pointless. So there must be a reason.  _

_ He watches Tommy shrug again, turning his attention to the bottle’s label. “Dunno. Got some, like, scholarship. I think.”  _

_ Fancy Nancy Wheeler and her scholarship. And Steve, her dutiful, supportive boyfriend. Billy looks at the empty bottle in his hands and wants to smash it. “Byers get an invite?” he wonders, tonguing at the side of his cheek.  _

_ He can feel Tommy looking at him. When Billy finally glances over at him, Tommy says slowly, “I don’t think so, no.” _

_ Billy nods vaguely. That sounds about right. She wouldn’t mix company like that, Fancy Nancy Wheeler. He thinks about catching sight of her and Byers in his junker a week or so ago, heads bent close over a book after school. Steve was home sick that day. He’s been keeping that information close to the chest, but now, after a couple weeks of radio silence from Steve, maybe it’s time for that information to reach the right ears.  _

_ “Steve’s making a mistake. With Wheeler,” he says after a moment. When Tommy lifts an eyebrow, he adds, “You know he talks about, like, marrying her and shit?” That’s information he’s been keeping close to the chest, too.  _

_ “Yeah, maybe,” says Tommy, and Billy doesn’t know what part of that he’s agreeing to.  _

_ “I know Steve.” Billy makes sure Tommy’s looking at him when he says it. “He’ll realize I’m right.” _

_ Tommy breathes out a laugh. “Man, aren’t you guys barely talking?”  _

_ Billy cracks open another beer to disguise his flinch. “He’ll come back. He always does.”  _

_ And if he doesn’t, Billy will make him.  _

* * *

**June, 1990**

Steve looks good driving his Camaro. Even with his dark circles, and his sweat-stains, and the glassy look in his eyes like he’s on the cusp of passing out—even with all that, he still looks good. Steve’s legs are casually splayed across the leather seat, soft sweatpants stretching over his thighs. They’re a little loose, the sweats, because they’re Billy’s. The shirt is his too. 

They didn’t exactly have time to pack. At some point, they’ll have to stop for clothes, for other stuff too, but they’ll have to wait until morning first. Nothing’s open right now. 

Up ahead, the sun is nothing more than a silver mist disturbing the horizon. Steve flicks at his dash clock, frozen perpetually on 11:17. “Did you know this is broken? What time even is it?” 

Billy flips his watch around. “Five. Pops and I—we were fixing it up. The car.” And Steve goes quiet at that, except for a considering hum. They drive in silence until he pulls off at the next exit, headed toward a gas station. A couple semis rest in the back, drivers stretching beside them and drinking open cups of steaming coffee. Steve steps out of the car with a sigh. Billy stays where he is, watching him stretch too. 

When Steve ducks his head back through the door, Billy hands him a couple bucks, instructing him to grab them some coffee. Their fingers brush when Steve takes the money. He hangs there for a moment, lips constrained into a frown. 

“The usual. You know what I like,” says Billy, and finally, Steve steps away. 

While he pumps the gas, Billy examines himself in the Camaro’s glossy windows. He can see Neil’s bruise now, right on his cheekbone. He presses on it and hisses at the ache. 

By the time Steve comes back, he’s poked at it so much the left half of his face feels like it’s on fire. Steve hands him his coffee and keeps hold of it when Billy grabs it. He has that frown in place again. Just when it starts to get uncomfortable, Steve turns back around and marches into the store. 

This time when he returns, he’s holding a bottle of rattling Advil and a cold water bottle. Billy takes them from him with a muttered, “Thanks.” He swallows five pills. 

At some point after that, he must fall asleep, although Billy doesn’t remember doing it. The gradient between waking and sleeping is seamless. He only finds himself jerked awake by the sound of Steve singing Mariah Carey’s  _ Vision of Love _ . He takes a moment just to look at Steve, with his messy hair and his hands banging on the steering wheel to the beat. He hasn’t noticed Billy staring yet. 

When Steve hits a particularly egregious note, Billy can’t stop himself from laughing. Steve just turns an easy smile on him, like this was his plan all along, and Billy feels that familiar surge of warmth he feels most of the time around Steve. It fills his chest and climbs up his throat; he can practically taste it, sitting sweet on his tongue. Then Steve throws the chorus to Billy, and he doesn’t sing it back. He gets a fist to the shoulder for that. 

Eventually, Steve turns the volume down to a reasonable level. “We’re ten miles from the border,” he says, and his dimples seem even more pronounced than usual. 

Billy reaches across the console and settles his hand on Steve’s knee. Just a touch. His warmth seeps into Billy’s hand through his sweats, and he keeps his hand there for a moment too long just to feel more of it. “We should celebrate,” says Billy. The mile markers fly past them. Five more to go until they’re out of Indiana. 

When they’re just about to pass the final marker, Billy directs him to take the exit on their left. Dutifully, Steve does. He follows Billy’s directions until they’re parked in front of Sunny Side Up, a rundown breakfast dive that’s seen better days. Better years. 

Steve blinks at the peeling paint. The buzzing neon sign. “Is it even open?” 

“Twenty-four hours, baby,” says Billy. He pushes his door open, not bothering to wait for Steve to follow him inside. 

Immediately, the nostalgic smell of cleaning supplies and fryer oil hits him. Dusty floor mats harboring dropped creamer and sticky syrup, too. It smells exactly the way he remembers. They’re the only people inside. That feels nostalgic, too. 

He slides into a booth next to a big bay window and watches Steve eye a payphone while he smokes a cigarette. Then he watches Steve stomp the smoke out and walk past the booth. Billy finally releases his held breath when Steve settles down across from him. Their waitress materializes from the darkened kitchen the moment he does. 

Billy already knows what he wants, but he waits for Steve to peruse the menu before saying, “Tall stack. Blueberry and chocolate-chip with extra blueberries.” He returns Steve’s skeptically arched eyebrow with one of his own. Then Steve snaps his menu shut and only orders a modest breakfast of eggs and toast. 

“Chocolate chips  _ and _ blueberries? What are you, five?” says Steve when their waitress is out of earshot. 

“Yeah, I’ll remember that when you want a bite,” says Billy. He takes a small sip of coffee. “You know, this is the first place we stopped in Indiana. I ever tell you that?” 

Steve’s mug pauses half-way to his mouth. “What? When you guys moved here?” 

He nods. “Yeah. Didn’t seem so bad then.” 

Steve’s eyes flicker over his face and then away. He fiddles with a creamer packet. “Has it been? Bad I mean,” says Steve carefully. 

Billy shrugs his shoulder. “Not everything.” 

“But some things…?” 

He shrugs again. “I’m glad we’re going to California,” he says finally. “I’ve wanted to bring you for a while.” 

Steve’s answering smile is small, but it reaches his eyes. “I’m glad, too.” 

Their waitress interjects with their food and they fall silent while she sets everything up. Even after she leaves, the silence lingers. Billy sticks his fork into his pancakes and lets it sit there. He rubs at his mouth and thinks about the phone booth. 

“You gonna call her?” he says. 

Steve’s eyes flicker back to him. “I have to.” 

_ You don’t.  _ Billy bites the words back. He suddenly doesn’t feel very hungry. “Alright,” he says. 

“I mean she’s probably—I’d want her to call. If she just left like that. So. I have to.” 

He just keeps nodding. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Billy,” says Steve. He says his name the same way he might say, “C’mon. Drop it.”

“I said alright, Harrington. I get it.” 

They eat the rest of their breakfast in that same lingering silence. Billy barely touches his pancakes. They taste worse than he remembers. He throws a couple bucks onto the table before Steve’s finished his eggs and steps outside for a cigarette. 

He smokes two before Steve comes back out. The silence follows them into the car and onto the road. It’s his turn to drive now. 

Billy doesn’t know what he expects to see once they pass the border. He only knows he’s disappointed. Illinois has the same rolling plains as Indiana. The same shitty roads. The same horizon that keeps pace with them, disrupted only by power lines. 

That’s what he’s glaring at when the question erupts onto his tongue. “Do you love her?” demands Billy. He’s only found the courage to ask this question once before. 

When the silence stretches too long, he makes himself look over at Steve. His forehead is pressed against the window, half-obscuring his furrowed brow. He looks like he’s about a second away from rubbing at some mounting headache in his temples. Or saying, “Billy,” again like he really means, “C’mon. Drop it.” 

“Nancy and me, we’ve been through a lot,” says Steve softly. 

Billy thinks about all he and Steve have been through together. From Billy’s very first week in Hawkins to now. He doesn’t know how Steve can truly believe he’s been through anything with Nancy Wheeler. Not anything meaningful. He exercises some self-control and kindly doesn’t say that.

In his peripheral, he sees Steve looking over at him now. “We don’t need to talk about this, okay?” says Steve. “Just, uh, tell me when you want to switch again.” 

That shuts the conversation down. So Billy turns the radio up between them, blaring. It thunders in his ears, stamping out any pesky thoughts. He can barely even hear the engine’s rumble. That’s why he doesn’t hear the engine’s sudden laboring whine. And then, about thirty miles out from the border, the whine becomes a shudder. Billy curses and eases the car onto the shoulder of the road. Automatically, he looks at the unmoving clock. 11:17. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” he spits, slamming his hand against the wheel. Steve jumps a little. Billy pushes the door open and rounds the car. No smoke. Thank god for small miracles. He lifts the hood, eyes scanning over the interior without really seeing anything. Eventually, Steve’s shoulder bumps softly against his. He didn’t even hear him get out of the car. 

“We were supposed to work on it this weekend,” says Billy. “Pops and me.” Steve’s shoulder presses against him a little harder. 

“Do you know what’s wrong?” 

Billy looks at him. He looks so beautiful, open sky above them, sun high and warm on their skin. “No,” whispers Billy. 

Steve’s lips turn up. He says, “Then we’ll figure it out.” 

* * *

**December, 1985**

_ The day after Christmas, Steve shows up at Billy’s house and wordlessly ushers him into the BMW. They idle down the street in complete silence. Billy looks out the window at his little house shrinking in size the further they drive from it. He doesn’t know how to tell Steve he was beginning to think he’d never see that sight again. Not from inside the BMW.  _

_ When he turns back around, he finds Steve observing him in his unapologetic, Harrington way. It makes him smile, and even though Steve doesn’t know the source of his humor, he suddenly smiles, too.  _

_ “Got some bud from Tommy,” says Steve after a moment, gesturing to the car’s dash. Billy immediately pulls out his rolling papers, grateful for something to do. He sprinkles bud into the crease and rolls a perfect joint with practiced ease.  _

_ By the time he gets it lit, Steve’s already pulling onto his street. The familiar silhouette of the Harrington house rises like a ship from a majestic crest of snow. They idle in the driveway for a moment, Steve looking openly at Billy again.  _

_ His cheeks are pleasantly flushed from the heater, and his nose is a livid red from what Billy suspects might be that lingering cold. He has to breathe through a sudden wash of relief. Relief that he’s here with Steve in his warm car, sweet dope fogging up his head, almost back to normal.  _

_ He doesn’t realize he’s smiling again until Steve smiles softly back. “Good bud?” he says.  _

_ In answer, Billy lifts the joint to Steve’s lips, holding it for him. Steve turns his head away to exhale, but the smoke filters over to Billy anyways, stinging at his eyes. They take a few more puffs before braving the oncoming flurries.  _

_ Inside, the Harrington house is warm and filled with golden light. Steve stamps off the excess snow on his boots before heading toward the den, which confirms Billy’s suspicions that the Harringtons are probably up in New York, visiting relatives for the holidays. He always leaves his boots by the door when they’re home. Billy doesn’t bother taking his shoes off either.  _

_ At some point during their dash, the joint went out, so Billy lights it again with a candle resting on top of a VHS player downstairs. Curiously, he opens the flap, finding the Skinemax title from the last time they used it. Interesting. He lets the flap fall closed.  _

_ The bud is really starting to hit him now. He wonders if Tommy gives him bad dope on purpose and saves the good stuff just for Steve. That’s something Billy might do.  _

_ “Been a while, Stevie,” he murmurs, staring at the VHS again. _

_ Steve takes the joint from him, exhaling a plume of sweet smoke before saying, “You missed some excellent Harrington holiday drama.”  _

_ So, Billy settles into the plush couch cushions while Steve launches into a saga about a suit, a bottle of merlot, and an unsalvageable stain. By the end, his face hurts from grinning so much and the joint is dead. Neither of them wants to brave the cold again to get more.  _

_ He’s just about to suggest they boot Pong up for old time’s sake when the phone rings. Steve grabs it right before it goes to voicemail, deploying a mostly sober sounding, “Harrington residence.” Curiously, his face falls while the person on the other end speaks.  _

_ “Hey Nance,” he says, darting a quick look to Billy before facing away from him. “Yeah, I’m actually um—I’m actually with Billy right now.” He goes quiet again while she speaks. Then after a moment, he mumbles, “Okay, yeah. Yeah, love you, too. Bye.”  _

_ Huh. Love you, too. He picks through his memories to recall if he’s ever heard Steve say it before now, but he can’t remember. Billy thinks he would remember something like that.  _

_ Patting the cushion next to him, Billy says, “C’mon Stevie. Sit back down. Put your feet up.” He lifts his legs so Steve can sit, and when he does, Billy immediately puts his feet in Steve’s lap. Automatically, Steve’s hand curls around his ankle, thumb rubbing back and forth. “So,” says Billy after a moment, “when’s curfew?”  _

_ Steve rolls his eyes. “She didn’t give me a curfew, Jesus.”  _

_ “Okay. So you need to be somewhere or something?” He doesn’t mean to sound so annoyed, but he can’t help it—he  _ is _ annoyed. A little furrow pinches up Steve’s brow.  _

_ “No, it’s fine.”  _

_ “Okay,” says Billy again, unable to shake his irritation. He doesn’t want to feel like this. He wants to roll another joint and ride out the winter storm with a warm high, but that’s looking less likely by the minute.  _

_ Steve’s thumb pauses on his ankle. “You know,” he says slowly, obviously sifting around for the right words, “you could at least pretend you like her.”  _

_ Automatically, he says, “I like Wheeler just fine. Y’know she’s—your girl or whatever. She’s fine.” He coughs a couple times into his fist.  _

_ Steve rolls his eyes and keeps them turned toward the ceiling. “Yeah, alright, then how come you’re always picking at her?”  _

_ That sits in the air like a brick.  _

_ Billy scoffs, and Steve insists, “No, I’m serious! You act like you fucking hate her or something. Makes my life really hard, man.”  _

_ He clears his throat a couple more times before he feels like he can speak again. “I don’t hate her, Stevie,” he says to the couch cushion. “I barely know her.”  _

_ He doesn’t add that he doesn’t need to know Nancy Wheeler to know she isn’t worth his time. Or Steve’s.  _

_ When the silence labors on, Billy sits up, drawing his feet out of Steve’s lap and pulling his knees to his chest. He waits for Steve to sit up, too. He mirrors Billy’s position and their knees brush. “Okay. Fine,” sighs Steve eventually. “We don’t have to talk about this anymore.”  _

_ He thinks they probably do. He thinks they can’t ever truly be normal again until they talk about it. Instead, he says, “That piece of shit TV still work?” For some reason he’ll never understand, Steve won’t let his dad chuck it. It’s the cheapest thing in all of Casa Harrington.  _

_ Steve says immediately, “You asshole, it’s not that bad!” like Billy knew he would. Some of the tension in the room drains away.  _

_ “I’m just sayin’, when Neil Hargrove has a better set up than you, maybe it’s time—”  _

_ “Okay, yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before. She works just fine. Sometimes. Under the right conditions,” says Steve, grinning now.  _

_ “Then let’s watch something,” says Billy.  _

_ “Yeah? Alright.”  _

_ Steve’s stare floats over to the candle burning steadily atop the VHS player. He half-expects him to stealthily switch the tape out for something else, or maybe to crack some joke about the last time they watched that movie down here, long before Nancy Wheeler was ever in the picture, but he only grabs the remote from the coffee table. The TV clicks on with a static whir, Skinemax logo slowly fading into view.  _

_ Steve presses play quickly before standing. “There’s more weed upstairs,” he explains, leaving Billy alone in the den. He barely pays attention to the screen, keeping his eyes on the square of light at the top of the stairs. Billy doesn’t know how long it takes for Steve to come back, but when he does, he’s smoking an already rolled joint.  _

_ He steps gingerly between Billy’s legs, looking larger than life. Billy just stares up at him. He can’t look at anything else. Steve takes a few more hits before settling the joint carefully between Billy’s lips. Then a loud moan draws both of their attention to the TV.  _

_ He sees only a flash. Two naked girls, kissing and petting each other. The scene captures Steve’s attention for longer than Billy’s. He’s too interested in the suddenly apparent line of Steve’s cock, pressing against his jeans. Without thinking, he hooks his fingers into Steve’s belt, giving it a little tug. He hasn’t seen Steve like this, with his pupil-blown eyes, and his pretty flush, for a long, long time.  _

_ Keeping two fingers curled into his belt, Billy reaches around him to settle the joint onto an ashtray. Another moan floats into the air, but it doesn’t distract either of them this time. Steve seems transfixed, staring down at Billy, lips parted. He’s not thinking about his next move before he does it: Billy manages to get Steve’s belt undone and his fly unzipped before he stops him with a surprisingly firm hand.  _

_ He waits for Steve to say something, thumbs inching further below the elastic band of his briefs when he doesn’t. He feels the wiry thatch of Steve’s hair and has to stop himself from leaning in. That’s an idea. His mouth on Steve. It circuits straight from his brain all the way to his cock.  _

_ “We, um,” whispers Steve. “I mean that’s not—”  _

_ His voice cracks and he doesn’t say anything else after. Billy patiently waits.  _

_ After another moment of inaction, Steve’s fingers suddenly loosen around his wrist, and Billy eases the band of his briefs down his hips and over his cock. It bobs free, standing swollen and red from the parted flaps of his fly. Steve smells sweet and musky, and the scent pulls him forward. The warm weight of Steve’s hand settles at the back of Billy’s head, and he has one second to enjoy it before Steve gently tugs him away. _

_ “We should probably put something else on,” mutters Steve. But he hasn’t moved his hand from Billy’s hair yet. It feels so good.  _

_ “Should we?” murmurs Billy, leaning forward again just to feel the pull at his scalp. _

_ “Probably, yeah,” says Steve softly.  _

_ “I’m not stopping you.”  _

_ But Steve doesn’t move, and after another tremulous moment of inaction, Billy gently curls his palm around the base of Steve’s cock. He lowers his head slowly enough so Steve knows what his intentions are. He barely knows what they are, but he knows enough. At least the broad strokes. The hand in his hair remains surprisingly pliant until he gets his lips around the swollen head.  _

_ Then Steve hisses, “Oh fuck,” and his hand clenches painfully. Billy barely suppresses a moan.  _

_ Experimentally, he tongues at the slit, tasting salty bitterness. That makes Steve curse again. He thinks he loves the sound of that. He thinks he could spend hours on his knees for Steve and still never tire of hearing it. Billy shifts on the couch, his cock dragging against his jeans. He’s already embarrassingly hard, just from a taste.  _

_ Cautiously, Billy moves his hand up Steve’s length while he suckles at the tip. Steve’s big. Bigger than Billy. His thoughts deviate for one moment to what it might feel like to have something that big inside him before he forcibly makes himself stop. Instead, he concentrates on the smell of Steve’s skin, and the taste of him on his tongue, and the fact that this is  _ Steve _ —Steve inside him, trusting Billy to take care of him like Billy always does. Like he always will.  _

_ Prompted by another little moan, Billy sinks down even further. Too far. He chokes. Tears spring into his eyes, and he pulls back on instinct, coughing. Steve’s hand pets through his hair until he catches his breath. He looks up at him through a blur of tears and nearly moans again at the sight.  _

_ Steve’s cheeks are warmed through with an even flush, which has now migrated down his throat, and his lips, bitten to hell, look plump and slick. Billy’s hand starts shaking when he curls it back around Steve’s cock. He wonders if Steve looks at Nancy Wheeler this way when she’s swallowing his load. If she even does.  _

_ “Billy,” Steve murmurs suddenly, after a few more strokes. His length hardens in Billy’s mouth, so he pumps his hand even faster. Steve holds him close with a fist in his hair when he comes. A flood of bitter warmth shoots into his throat, and Billy struggles to swallow it all, not wanting to waste any.  _

_ When Steve starts to soften, Billy reluctantly pulls off him. Steve’s looking down at him with glassy, dope-glazed eyes, seeming lost. A stab of emotion swells behind his ribs. It hurts. And suddenly, he wants to ask if Steve really does love Nancy Wheeler. He wants to hear the answer, “Yes,” while he can still taste Steve’s come. While Steve is still looking at him like  _ that _. A couple times, he gets the question all the way to the tip of his tongue before biting it back.  _

_ Instead, he noses at the soft skin of Steve’s hip. That unnamed emotion swells in him again, and he bites down. Steve hisses in pain, quickly pushing him away. But not before the damage is done. He can see the livid indentations of his teeth. A mark that will bruise.  _

_ Steve just stares at him, breathing ragged, while Billy takes his time wiping his mouth off. When he looks up again, he says, “Were you gonna change it?”  _

* * *

**June, 1990**

By the time they get the car running again, it’s high noon. Billy’s drenched with sweat, and Steve’s sporting the very beginnings of a sunburn. The engine’s healthy purr is a fucking relief. He collapses back into the driver’s seat feeling winded like he just ran a few miles. 

Steve cranks the AC up to full blast, sticking his face right by the vent. He sits like that until the sweat at his hairline finally dries. “We should probably get this looked at before we really get going,” says Steve. 

“Yeah.” Billy feels the gravity of last night finally hit him. His eyes feel gritty, his cheek fucking throbs, and he can smell both of them inside the small cabin. He reaches over Steve to flip the dash open, rummaging around for the Atlas. He spreads it out over the center console and circles Willowbrook with his finger. “It’s 50 miles away. They probably have a garage.” 

Steve yawns into his fist, saying, “Sounds good.” 

So they head toward Willowbrook, and Steve falls asleep immediately, filling the cabin with his soft snores. He’s curled up against the window, arms crossed, mouth hanging open. Absently, Billy reaches over to brush a lock of his wild hair away from his face. Steve sighs softly when he does. 

It takes just over an hour to reach Willowbrook. He drives the entire stretch in silence, not wanting to miss any warning sounds from the car. Around two in the afternoon, he pulls off the exit. 

Willowbrook, if possible, is smaller than Hawkins. Maybe what Hawkins used to be before it showed up on Neil Hargrove’s map all those years ago. The hub of the entire town is a single strip of shops running alongside a set of train tracks. Billy crawls down it until he sees a gas station called Mick’s with a garage attached. He pulls sharply into the lot, kicking up a jet stream of dust.

Steve blinks awake when the car stops. He scrubs at his hair, face scrunching up while he yawns. Billy grins at him. “Mornin’ sleeping beauty,” he says. 

Billy pushes the door open and takes a moment to stretch his legs out. A woman in a tank top and cut off jean shorts catches sight of them from the open garage. She lifts her chin at him and meets him halfway across the lot. 

“Beautiful car you got there. She a Z/28?” 

Billy nods. “1979. Giving me some trouble, though. Maybe you can help me with that.” 

The woman sucks on her teeth. She looks about fifty—but could be younger. A small town like this wrings the years out of you. “What’s wrong with her?” 

Billy tells her about the work he and Neil did and about breaking down on the road. She nods along while he talks. When he’s done, she spits into the dirt between them and grunts, “Well, let’s have a look then—”

“Billy,” he says. In the corner of his eye, he watches Steve head into the convenience store.

“Billy,” she says. “I’m Gemma. Something tells me we’ll be spending some time together.” 

* * *

“Definitely the alternator,” says Gemma a couple hours later, coming up from beneath the hood. “Looks like your belt is hanging on by a thread, too.” Billy knew about the belt, but he’d been waiting on next month’s paycheck to pay up for the parts. He frowns down at the car’s interior. 

Gemma keeps her scrutinizing gaze pinned on him until he looks up again. “You’ve got a few options,” she starts. “Lemme make a few calls about that alternator, see if we can scrounge up a new one. As for the belt...” She tells him she’ll take care of it for a prorated cost, because in her words, “a car like yours doesn’t deserve a fate like that.” 

Steve joins them while he’s forking over fifty bucks for the alternator and an extra twenty for the belt. Gemma licks at a dirty finger and counts the bills out. “I’ll start calling around,” she tells him, pocketing the money. “In the meantime, you boys ought to find a room for the night. She’s not goin’ anywhere till morning.” 

When Gemma’s gone, Steve says, “So. First stop, huh? Willowbrook, USA.” 

Billy pushes himself off the wall. “Think I saw a motel a little ways back.” 

Gemma points them in the direction of The Majesty, which is a grueling walk from the garage. By the time they get there, it’s nearing five and Billy can feel every one of his muscles, each aching in a unique and demanding way. They get a room with a single queen. 

He fumbles the key into the lock and immediately collapses face-first onto the bed, pleased to find the sheets smell like fresh laundry. A moment later, the bed dips slightly. He feels Steve’s warm hand on his ankle while he unties Billy’s boots and pulls them off. In answer, Billy wiggles his toes. 

“Jesus, stop! You know I hate that,” laughs Steve. 

“Sorry, what do you hate again?” He keeps wiggling them until Steve hits him with a pillow. Then the bed lifts. Billy hears the soft sounds of Steve puttering around, kicking his own shoes off, stepping out of his clothes. He turns his head so he can watch him. A funny tan line separates his pale chest from his neck now that the sunburn has fully developed. 

“You wanna eat or shower first?” says Billy. 

Steve rubs a hand over his face. “At what point can we sleep?” 

“After the first two things.” 

His hand pauses on his face. “Shit. I’ve gotta call, Nance.” 

Billy’s smile falls away. He keeps watching Steve. “When are you gonna do that?” he says finally. 

“Before the first two things,” mutters Steve. 

“You could wait.” 

Steve shakes his head. “I can’t. It’s already been like a day.” He pads over to the phone on the desk, pulls the jack from the wall, and shuts himself away in the bathroom. 

Billy distracts himself with a short trip down the walkway to the vending machine. He spends the rest of his cash on candy bars, chips, and lukewarm Cokes. 

Steve’s still on the phone when he gets back, so he distracts himself some more by fucking around with the TV—they’ve got three channels, one of them static—and snooping through all of the drawers. That’s how he finds the half-finished bottle of Jim Beam. He cracks it open with his teeth and takes a couple open-throated gulps from it. He can’t hear what Steve’s saying from the bathroom, but he can hear his voice rising. 

He nurses the bottle until Steve falls quiet and then keeps nursing it for a little longer after that. He entertains the thought that Nancy called things off. The next pull of Jim Beam is sweet on his tongue. When the silence continues, he pulls himself out of bed and knocks at the bathroom door. Then he opens it without waiting for an answer. 

Steve has his head thrown back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, and a cigarette steadily smoldering between two fingers. He doesn’t look over at him. 

Billy nudges the door open further. “Found a little present,” he says, wiggling the bottle. When Steve still doesn’t look up, he uncaps it with his teeth and pushes the lip against his mouth. Dutifully, Steve takes a sip. 

“Got some food, too,” says Billy, sitting next to him, “but you’ll actually have to get up for that.” 

Steve nods, releasing a shuddering breath. He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, and says, sounding miserable, “Nance wants me back in Hawkins by tomorrow morning.” 

Immediately, Billy rolls his eyes. “Or fucking what?” 

“Or—I don’t know. She said she’d need to...to reconsider some things.” Steve bites at his lip, staring off to a faraway spot. He shrugs a little. “I don’t know.” So Billy picks up the Jim Beam again and puts it back to Steve’s lips. This time, he takes it and drinks until there’s nothing left. 

Billy thinks about heading back to Hawkins with his tail between his legs. Exchanging Steve with Nancy fuckin’ Wheeler like a goddamn hostage. It makes him feel a little sick. 

“I just wanna go to bed,” says Steve, pulling him out of his thoughts.

Billy eyes him. Then the tub. “I think we agreed a couple things need to happen before we do that.” 

When Steve doesn’t say anything, Billy slowly stands and turns the shower on. With the curtain pulled back, water mists over the tub’s edge, making the tile slick. He pulls his shirt off and shrugs out of his jeans and briefs. Steve only stares at him with the bottle’s lip still pressed against his mouth. 

He steps into the tub and calls over the spray, “You waiting until all the hot water is gone or what?” 

And then, when he still doesn’t get a response, he says, “C’mon, man. I don’t want you stinkin’ up the bed.” 

At that, Steve’s silhouette shifts slightly beyond the translucent curtain. Billy busies himself by soaping up. He’s halfway done by the time the curtain draws back, and Steve clambers gracelessly into the tub. He presses immediately against Billy’s back, shivering, so Billy steps aside to give him access to the water. 

He doesn’t know when it happened, but Steve gained some muscles right under Billy’s nose, and a glittering array of droplets clings to every contour of them now. Wordlessly, he lathers soap between his palms and starts washing Steve’s back. Maybe because he’s tipsy, or maybe because he’s still thinking about his call, Steve lets him. 

Billy can feel those newly defined muscles shifting under his hands, and when he reaches the dimples in Steve’s back, a little sigh echoes off the tiles. The sound of it plumps Billy’s cock up, but he steadfastly ignores that. He doesn’t want to push his luck tonight. Not while Steve is on the brink of making them head back to Hawkins. 

Eventually, Steve turns around and gently takes the soap from Billy, rubbing it between his hands. He murmurs, “Your turn,” so Billy turns around even though he’s already washed himself. 

Steve’s warm hands settle onto his shoulders. Billy sighs back against him. For a moment, he just kneads the muscles there, and then he drags his palms from Billy’s upper back all the way to his hips. He shivers. Slowly, Steve’s hands work their way to his front, rubbing briefly at the trail of hair leading to his groin before sweeping up to his abs, and then to his chest. A thumb skirts along Billy’s pec and over his nipple. Just a graze, but he jolts to attention anyway. 

Steve brushes slow, irregular touches over him until his nipples are hard and pebbled. He doesn’t know if Steve even realizes what he’s doing. If he’s noticed yet how hard Billy is, cock red and pulsing between his thighs. 

_ We can’t do that anymore. _ It echoes inside his head on a loop until he only hears the words in his own voice.  _ We can’t. _ That’s definitely Billy’s voice. 

Just as he lifts a hand to stop him, Steve’s attention roves safely back to Billy’s shoulders. He gives them a gentle squeeze before stepping away. They finish the rest of the shower with minimal touching and speaking. Billy steps out of the shower first. 

His cock is still half-hard, pressing against the towel, but he barely registers that. He feels kind of shaky again. Like he hasn’t had a cigarette in a while. Feels like days at this point. He grapples with the carton on the bedside table and watches his reflection in the wall mirror struggle to ignite the lighter. A moment later, Steve appears in his reflection too. 

Billy fogs the image of them over with a lungful of smoke. “There’s, uh, stuff—if you’re hungry.” He tosses a Kit-Kat at him, and annoyingly, Steve catches it in one hand.

He turns it over like he’s never seen one before. “Thanks,” he mutters. 

Billy quickly steps back into his clothes even though they’re grimy and smell like a day on the road. He feels exposed standing out here in only a towel. Steve doesn’t seem to care that he’s still naked. He’s too busy frowning down at the Kit-Kat. 

“I think there’s a Gilligan’s Island marathon on if you wanna watch that,” says Billy, settling stiffly onto their bed. That seems to snap Steve to attention.

“Yeah, alright,” he mumbles, before walking back into the bathroom to dress. 

Billy flips to the right channel and watches the TV with the barest level of attention while he waits for Steve. He’s been in the bathroom for a while, and Billy half-wonders if he didn’t call Nancy again. 

Then the door slides back open, emitting Steve half-clothed in Billy’s sweats. He sits on the edge of the bed like he expects it to collapse at any moment. Billy watches him from the side of his eye. 

“You gonna turn the light off or what?” he says when Steve doesn’t move.

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Steve turns the light off and settles stiffly back against the headboard. His face looks soft in the flickering blue light of the TV.  _ You’re staring _ , some vigilant part of him warns.  _ You’re always staring. _ So he forces himself to look back at the TV, too. They watch two episodes before Steve says he’s going to bed. 

The TV hums for a few seconds after Billy clicks it off. It takes a moment before he can see anything again, but when he does, he finds Steve facing him. 

“Why California?” he whispers. 

His mouth opens and closes.  _ Because it’s different there. We could be different there.  _

Slowly, he sinks down into the mattress and faces Steve, one arm pillowed under his head. Their hands are only a few inches away. He focuses on the shape of Steve’s fingers when he says, “You know, our old house is back on the market. The one I lived in with my mom. I think...she would have liked you.” 

He can feel Steve turning that over. Billy peeks at him after a moment. “Do you think any of her stuff is still in the house somewhere?” wonders Steve. 

Billy’s thought about that a lot, but he remembers Neil throwing out boxes of shit before her sister held a proper estate sale. His throat aches suddenly. “Probably not,” he says. 

Steve’s hand inches over until their fingers brush, and stupidly, Billy feels like he’s going to cry. So he clears his throat roughly and turns over, pulling the covers up. “Shit, I’m tired,” he says. 

Steve doesn’t say anything. After a moment, the bed rustles, and Billy has to concede some of the blankets when he tugs on it. They both lay there in silence. His eyes feel wired open now that his thoughts are turning. 

He doesn’t know how long they lay like that before Steve turns back over and a warm hand settles onto his shoulder. “I think…if she’s anything like you, I would have liked her, too.” 

Billy squeezes his eyes shut against the sting. “She, uh, yeah. That’s what people say. That I’m a lot like her.” The hand on his shoulder tightens but doesn’t move away. 

“Then I would have loved her.”

Steve moves closer to him, the heat from his body joining Billy’s under the blanket. He can even feel the whispering brush of Steve’s leg, nudging against his. The hand on his shoulder moves lower, curling around his midsection. He shivers but presses his own hand over Steve’s. 

Billy wishes he could just be normal. Just for one night. Maybe if he was normal, Steve would stay. Maybe he would have never left. Steve’s hand starts tracing an idle design along the band of skin where his shirt rode up, and Billy has to forcibly stow all thoughts of more away, locking them up. 

_ We can’t.  _

Maybe if he repeats it enough, in the morning, Steve will point them West.


End file.
